The Necessity of Deceit
by Rogozhin
Summary: Forcibly returning Edward Kirk to the nation he'd fled seemed entirely routine, but there was nothing routine about its aftermath or the misery it wrought. Faced with impending conflict, Regina is forced to reconsider both her own identity and her preconceptions of others. Are their actions just? Is he the true villain, or merely an unfortunate victim?
1. A1: Chapter 1

Harsh storms and a perpetually grey sky set the scene for the returning raid team as they approached the port city from the western sea. Five highly trained agents had left the night before for a foreign island to the south west. Only three returned, one perilously close to death. It was still a success, they all knew, despite the losses.

Their superiors cared only that the task had been completed, the target captured, and indeed it had been done to perfection. The man in question, an energy researcher who'd staged his own death and defected from their nation three years before, had been found and seized as promised. They prided themselves on efficiency, if nothing else. That thought sustained them all as the coastline came into view.

The city of Merestan was rarely spoken of in favourable terms even by its most patriotic citizens, and there were few enough of those as it was. A prominent border city on the western edge of the Alvernian nation, it served as an industrial port and a staging ground for a sizeable military base in the small mountain range north of the city. Despite the importance of those features, the city was better known for its prominent industrial ghettos and sparsely inhabited mazes of brick and stone.

If not for the military Merestan would undoubtedly have been abandoned. Little else sustained the city's populace, the many factories uniformly abandoned with the exception of those that serviced the army. A comfortable life could be found in the embrace of the state military, and this was especially true in espionage. As it was their division focused on international espionage and domestic work that was best left unnoticed. With their only external enemies to the west, it was a natural base of operations.

After their return a great rush of bureaucracy immediately overtook them. Even that was a comfort after the trials of the island. Gail, the team's leader, had been rushed to the nearest military hospital on the verge of death. The unfortunate captive, Edward Kirk, was quickly taken away in the back of an armoured truck, and the remaining two, Rick and Regina, were dragged into a series of unending debriefings.

The procedures were followed without any semblance of abnormality. That was unusual enough for the Alvernian military. Often the paperwork would take weeks, shifted from one desk to another, one excuse following another. Not this time. It was all done with the utmost professionalism, enough for all involved to notice.

Before long both surviving agents had been released into the city and told to await further orders. For someone adjusted to a highly organised lifestyle, being released into a place like Merestan seemed a twisted form of punishment. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no way to leave.

One of those agents, a tall woman with vivid shoulder-length red hair, found herself sitting in a small park under a miserably cloudy night sky a week after her return from the mission to Ibis Island. The first few days after a mission were always difficult. Insomnia was common, though that was always so, but paranoia, nausea, and fatigue weren't unusual either. It depended on the mission, she'd found, but always settled into a restless but dull tiredness before long.

Regina often resorted to wandering the streets; after a certain time they were sure to be deserted, and she found the opportunity for solitude too valuable to be missed. The events on Ibis Island had been particularly unsettling, and the aftermath hardly any less so. Aimless wandering brought with it a certain satisfaction. Isolation too could be appreciated, in time, and she learned this anew with each operation.

She preferred to think of herself as a patient person, but the decisions passed down from command had been little more than infuriating. Denied permission to see Gail, denied permission to see the prisoner she'd captured, and finally been told that any further information was above her clearance level. Ingratitude was the word, she thought, though she knew they owed her nothing, as Gail would undoubtedly have said.

She sighed, leaned back on the uncomfortable wooden bench and stared at the sky. The cool night air hardly helped with her mood, but the hotel room waiting was even less desirable. Ibis Island had at least been warm. This city managed to be cold in summer. The trees were twisted and dying, or so she thought. It was too hard to see, and far harder to care.

A seedy bar could be seen across the street, quiet and lifeless as the rest of the city. Before coming to the park she'd tried to drink her troubles away, but the liquor tasted of rotten fruit and the company was best left unmentioned. Even the tables had a thin coating of some sort of resin, proudly left for all to see. Substance abuse never had much appeal at the best of times. In Merestan there were few other pleasures.

Dried leaves crunched in the trees behind, and she felt her hand lightly brush over the pistol at her hip. The lack of light concealed most of the street, but that was how she'd preferred it. Her heart was racing already, a tinge of fear overriding her good sense.

Twisting herself around and out the seat, one boot on the chair, she drew her pistol and held it at her side. There was no real reason to be alarmed, she knew. It made no difference.

Someone did emerge from the trees; even in the low light she could make out his distinctive appearance. She sighed inaudibly, lowered the pistol and threw herself back onto the bench.

The figure stepped into the weak light of the nearby streetlamp, watching her with trepidation. "Happy as ever to see me, aren't you? Sorry I'm so late, but I'd have been later if I knew that was the welcome I'd get." Humour was a defence for him, and always had been. It didn't help, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

She watched as Rick walked over and threw himself next to her. Eyes bloodshot and expression grim, he still looked up at her with a slight smile. The warm smile reserved for his closest friends was there as ever, but there was a clear weariness to it that hadn't been there a week ago.

"Could have met in the bar, but it's not your scene. Too expensive," Regina replied, eyes staring directly ahead but seeing nothing.

Rick glanced over at her. "Don't give me that. You pulled a gun in there too and they kicked you out, right?" His tone was harsher than she'd expected, but the concern was there. To her surprise, she realised it was a valid question.

"We're trained for caution." It wasn't enough, and she let out a long breath. "I thought I was being followed earlier. No, I know there was nobody there." A light breeze picked up as they spoke, rustling the leaves of the nearby trees. "I never seem to get used to it, you know?" she said, meeting his eyes for the first time.

"None of us do. You know what it's like out there. Then they bring us back, send us out here," he said, one hand waving at the city around them. "I think we signed away our right to a normal life a long time ago."

She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jacket. "Maybe you're right." She hadn't slept properly for days, but he'd guessed that. "Doesn't make it any easier, not when they treat us like we haven't earned any respect at all. I thought after a few years they might open up, tell us what we're doing and why. It won't happen."

Rick leaned back in his seat and sighed. "Seems like we always end up like this. Mission complete, escaped certain death once again, and where are we? Sitting in some shithole corner of yet another place we can't wait to leave. But that's the life, right? We'll all end up like Gail, you wait."

She barely heard his words, watching as an elderly man stumbled out of the bar and slipped into a side alley. It wasn't hard to guess why. Two soldiers approached from the other side, clad in the deep blue Alvernian uniform. One stumbled as he walked, laughing as his partner spoke. They entered the bar without any shame at all, as was quite common.

Despite its ugliness, Merestan served an important role in the Alvernian defence grid. The city manufactured a great deal of weaponry, and she knew a lot of the city's most inconspicuous buildings concealed darker secrets. Policing was handled by the military, as were many other basic services. Unfortunately for those in her position, espionage against the Borginians was also one of many duties handled in Merestan. What the state military didn't outright own it controlled in all but name.

A firm hand on her upper arm shook her back to reality. "I haven't seen you like this for years. Is it Gail?"

Her fist clenched in irritation for a brief second. That too was frustrating. Impulse control was something she'd mastered long ago. "Gail doesn't need us worrying about him," she finally said, more harshly than she'd intended.

"You think so? Last we saw of him he was barely even conscious. I just don't get it. Why does he put up with this?" he said, rubbing his face in exasperation. Realising she wasn't going to speak, he changed tactics. "How'd you go down at the port office?"

"Apparently I don't have clearance to access the Ibis Island data. Doesn't matter that I found that data, read half of it, and could have just copied it then if I'd known they were going to do this. Orders from the boss himself, they said, and he's a colonel."

"So that's why you had me meet you here, right? What's the plan?" he asked, throwing a hand over her shoulder.

Optimism was frustrating. "What plan? Gail might have had a shot; I hear he and the colonel are close, but whatever they're doing, we're just going to have to wait." She stood up and shrugged. After all, she thought, that was Gail's philosophy, and he'd survived nearly twenty years in the military without falling into despair.

Rick stood up with her, taking a cautious step back. "Okay, okay. So if you _could_ do something, what would it be?"

"I couldn't tell you. What I do know is that Kirk was only half the reason they sent us to that place. He told me himself, but I didn't push it any further. Wonder where they're hiding him?"

She saw him watching her from the corner of her eye. Rick was almost excessively loyal, but she found it far easier to trust him than anyone else she knew. They'd met in the military exam hall back in the capital, and worked together since graduation, one of the few constants in her life. Still, looking at him now he was almost unrecognisable from the passionate idealist she'd met five years before.

It had been a slow transition. As the years passed more and more cynicism crept into his thoughts, tainting his ideals, though he hadn't once let that stop him from doing what he decided was right. Still, she often got the impression that his optimism had become an act, more for their benefit than his.

The deaths of Tom and Cooper, the last two of their five man squad, had hit both of them hard. Rick's failure to save Tom still haunted him, she was sure. In truth, neither of them ever mattered half as much to her as he did. Perhaps it was his nature after all. What business did a man like that have in the military?

Again she felt his hand on her shoulder. "Look, I don't know what they're up to either, or even what to do about it, but staying here all night's not going to help." Standing there at that hideous park bench, she was grateful for his support, but knew support was all he could give.

Kicking the gravel, she looked back at him. "Yeah, you're right as usual. Still, it's not like anywhere in this city's any better. I'll see you tomorrow, right?" Flashing a brief smile to reassure him, she began the long walk back to her hotel through the empty streets. The rest of the night passed slowly and painfully, sleep eluding her until the first hints of light appeared in the east.

After waking from that unfortunately short rest, she'd found the note on a flimsy table next to the hotel room door with a box of sedatives. Rick had a key, and she assumed he'd stopped by while she was unconscious. She had the spare key to his room too, though he'd chosen a nicer establishment on the eastern side of the city. It was a relief, to have a friend like him, even if it wasn't enough.

Seeing the sedatives she had to smile. She preferred to only resort to those measures when the insomnia became too much to bear. As Rick had guessed, it was a good time for medicinal support. She tried to eat a late breakfast, but the sight of the flavourless cereal floating in milk was too much to stomach, and most of it was washed down the sink.

His note was short and frustratingly vague. Rick wanted her to meet him, and as soon as possible, to discuss an idea. Why? He refused to put it in writing. That was hardly unusual, but still frustrating. Everything was frustrating, she was beginning to realise, and the note should have been cause for excitement.

They'd been meeting most days if only to relieve boredom, but this had a different tone to it. She read it twice and took an official call before pulling on some clothes and leaving the dingy room for the day. That the military had known where to find her wasn't unusual. They always knew, and the more important you were the more effort they put into finding you.

The dull afternoon sky above was hardly a motivating sight, but it was still preferable to the lifelessness that so often set in after sunset. A light rain had swept over the city early that morning, never fully committing to a rainstorm but still emerging sporadically until noon. It was a shame. She appreciated the rain. The harsh, natural smell of it, the feel of the water on her skin. It was something to be enjoyed.

Watching the darker storm clouds moving east, Regina stepped out of the lobby of her small hotel. Located in the centre of the western district, coastal, poverty stricken and lightly populated, it was always her first choice of boarding house, though the military living allowances would easy pay for better. Mere habit or grudging appreciation for the ancient stone architecture, she'd never quite known.

A light breeze blew through her hair as she closed the door and jumped down the small steps to the street below. Passing an armed guard patrolling the sidewalk, the man shooting a curious glance at her, she headed for the south end of the street.

"Report to the western command centre," the woman on the other end of the phone had said, refusing to specify more. Western command was in the centre of the city, an enormous fortress overlooking them from all sides. To her surprise a warship had been docked upon their arrival, though it was to be expected. Alvernia was fond of its military, and put it to use as often as it could. The western district was unofficially the military's headquarters, she knew, and that explained much of Merestan's local culture.

An armed convoy passed by, and a young woman next to her stepped back into the shelter of a shopfront until the heavily armoured vehicles turned into the next street. They were headed for the port, Regina suspected.

Watching as they left, she realised not for the first time that her nation was changing, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. Turning to head west, she knew that assumption was a dangerous one. Had the nation changed, or had she started to see it for what it was, and had always been?

Even when she'd been recruited a series of border wars in the north were used to justify the expansion of the military's influence even further. The rumours she'd heard had never been forgotten, nor the stories of the fate that befell the northern region's inhabitants when they defied their larger neighbour.

"I never seem to get used to it," the woman to her side said, stepping back onto the sidewalk. Her voice was shaken, ever so slightly, but Regina recognised the fear.

"It's just a few supply trucks. What scares you?" she asked, watching her reaction curiously.

She looked down at the pavement. "I moved here from Borginia," she murmured, almost ashamed. "We heard stories, and our army was so small. You'd never see armed soldiers on the street like this at home. It's silly, I know. I'll get used it."

"It doesn't hurt to be cautious. Still, I don't think you have much to worry about. They make the civil servants wear the uniform too, if that helps. They're not all soldiers."

"Yeah. You're probably right. Have a nice day, alright?" She picked up her shopping and quickly left for the southern end of the street. Not much of a success, but what else could she have said?

Watching the young woman leave, Regina couldn't help but think of herself as one of those soldiers. She liked to think her work was of some use, even if most of it had nothing to do with the wellbeing of the populace. It was a comforting thought, true or not. Trying to smooth her untidy hair with one hand and failing, she kept moving, intending to reach the command centre before the rain returned.


	2. Chapter 2

It was only as the door slammed closed on the filth and foulness of the cell in which he'd been so violently thrown that Edward Kirk realised his miserable state could have been markedly improved by a little more forethought.

He collapsed onto the pile of mouldy blankets his captors had so generously provided before rolling over and taking his first real look at the reality of his new surroundings. The harsh industrial lighting of the hall outside only managed to penetrate the cell through a small crack in the door, but it was enough for him to be thankful for the darkness. The thick iron walls seemed to have a thick coating of rust and some sort of grease, and what little he could make out of the furniture indicated it'd likely been put there to spite the cell's unfortunate occupant.

How had it come to this? That thought had been burned into his mind from the moment they'd introduced him to his new life as a prisoner. Of course, it hadn't all been darkness and misery. The uniformed officials he'd been presented to had put on a stern but knowing air, as if it could all be worked out by a short chat. That hadn't lasted long.

A sharp knock shook him out of his contemplative state. "You'll be summoned in an hour, so be ready." The guard's muffled voice revealed his amusement.

Kirk sat up and leaned against the wall with a sigh. They'd started by asking for his help, progressed to threatening him, and then tried ignoring him. With each change in technique he was shown to an even fouler cell. Still, he'd spent more than enough time around military men to know what was coming next. There'd be an hour in this hell as a warning, perhaps, and then?

The problem was depressingly simple. They demanded he tell them every last filthy detail of the research project he'd undertaken for their rivals, The Borginian Republic. It had to be frustrating to invest so many resources in a plan only to see it crumble before you. That was an accurate summation of his research career, at any rate. But he simply didn't have what they needed, and certainly didn't have the inclination to share anything with them to begin with.

Still, they (whoever 'they' were) had brought it on themselves. It'd been the most absurd night, having a raid team infiltrate the military research base he'd been working at just in time for it to be overrun with beasts. Survival alone had been difficult enough, all things considered. The excitement had been exhilarating, in a sense, but even that paled in comparison to the entertainment he'd taken in learning that the moralising agents didn't even know why they were there. The only exception had been the excessively stoic leader, who had a curious lack of trust in his allies and a terribly frustrating manner.

He faintly heard a scream from outside. Despite the secrecy, he was quite sure that this was an actual military base. They'd taken great care to hide the details during his long trip underground to the cells. Perhaps this was the torture level. Did they still have those? Or perhaps, he considered, they were simply trying to scare him into compliance.

The hardest part to accept was how close he'd been to escaping this fate. Evading the enemy agents had been difficult, gathering the results of his experiment even more so, but only at the very end had he been captured. Standing before a helicopter a mere minute from success the most dangerous of the whole lot found him with his back turned, a persistent woman with a shotgun and red hair, a vivid colour that refused to leave his memory. Despite their best attempts she'd been the only one to have any real success. Only she hadn't even been told what the real mission was, resulting in the lot of us leaving the island without the data their superiors so desperately desired. The look on her face when she'd realised what she hadn't been told had been absolutely exhilarating, giving him a soothing memory to cling to after they'd been separated by the many faceless soldiers awaiting their return.

Before long the hour was up and the guards returned, two men with impressive physiques and dead eyes dressed in uniforms more grey than the usual blue. Kirk saw only a short glimpse of the hideous hall outside, his sight blocked by a black hood.

A short, uncomfortable walk down a flight of stairs passed without a word before he heard the distinctive sound of a rusty hinge swinging forwards. He felt a firm hand slam into his chest and knock him down into a chair before the hood was removed. There was a great deal of showmanship in these sessions, he'd quickly realised.

"Have you reconsidered, Edward?" asked a familiar voice. The speaker stood at the back of the room, his features bathed in the heavy glow of the white lights above. Tall and clothed in a dark blue officer's uniform, his slightly greying hair and tired face betrayed the first signs of age on a man otherwise in peak physical condition.

"Throwing me in a dungeon doesn't make what you're asking any more possible," Kirk replied, blinking as he adjusted to the light. He saw a windowless room, sparsely furnished, through his burning eyes. The two guards took subservient positions at the door, faces blank.

The man stepped forward, leaning on a steel table in the centre of the room. "You have to understand my position. Playing these games really doesn't have much appeal, you see, and I can't imagine you find it very useful." He paused for a brief moment, looking at his prisoner curiously. "This stubbornness has me surprised, if you must know. Surely you have no real loyalty to them?

"I've never had much loyalty to anyone, Colonel. Perhaps that's why I'm here," he said, leaning back in the chair. Negotiating with military men had been a constant feature in his life for most of the past decade, but this particular one had always left him feeling uneasy.

"It's exactly why you're here, Doctor. You should've accepted our decision in the first place. Did you seriously imagine it would work? Defecting was never going to end well, but you were too arrogant to see it," the Colonel said. His eyes shifted from Kirk's face to the door behind. "Well, perhaps it could have worked. Another man might have made a success of it."

Kirk raised an eyebrow at that. "You did cut funding to my work. What did you expect I'd do? And now you actually have the nerve to ask me what I found after you abandoned me?"

"I expected you'd understand the reality of the situation and comply. Did you think playing dead would work forever?" He got up from the table, readjusting his uniform and pacing slowly. "Your dismissal was required, but it wasn't intended to be permanent."

Kirk listened carefully, but didn't respond to the bait.

"And now we're back at my question. Were you actually developing weapons for the Borginians? Because my soldiers are quite confident that's exactly what you were doing."

Kirk watched the older man start pacing the tiled room. They had a rather long history together despite only having spoken on three occasions. Colonel Anton Royce was the man who'd first examined his research proposal, ultimately granting funding and a team to the young scientist. At the time he'd been a lieutenant colonel looking for any way to advance himself in the eyes of his superiors. Plainly his strategies had been well rewarded.

"They certainly wanted to know whether such a thing was possible, I'll admit. But that wasn't the main focus of my work."

Royce pulled over a seat and sat next to his captive. "I know. It was actually a difficult call to make, sending a team to Ibis Island. Antagonising Borginia at a time like this could be problematic, but I expect you'd know that. Still, once I heard you were leading the project I knew it would come to this."

"Did you really? And here I thought you were just cleaning up your own mistakes. A colonel personally coming down into this cesspit? You brought me into the military, after all," Kirk said, brushing back a stray lock of filthy blonde hair.

"And what a bitter disappointment you proved to be." He leaned in closer. "I'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself, Edward. Our relations with your new friends have soured even further, in no small part thanks to you. If they threw away that much capital in the hope that your research was anything other than a waste of time they're either desperate or blessed with strong imaginations."

He resisted the urge to respond to the obvious taunt. "So what exactly are you suggesting?

"I'm offering you the chance to escape a life of imprisonment and to complete your work. Isn't that, as you used to say, all you really wanted?"

"And all I have to do is use the Third Energy to develop weapons for the state. You want an edge if this turns into a war, I presume? That was how you put it three years ago, wasn't it?" He flashed a knowing grin at the officer.

The colonel shook his head. "Not the state. You'll be developing them for me."

Kirk couldn't help but laugh at that. "So I'll be a prisoner, only I'll be building you weapons on the side, is that it?"

"You're a prisoner now. After I grow tired and leave you'll be thrown into a filthy cell to rot. Take my offer and you'll find things considerably more luxurious. I don't mistreat my allies."

Watching the older man carefully, Kirk looked back at the soldiers and shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't believe you. And, sadly enough for us both, I simply have nothing to share."

Royce's face hardened. "I wouldn't be so blunt if you had any alternative, Kirk. Sooner or later you'll realise I'm the only one who knows or cares about your work or your life. Consider my offer carefully. Or don't, if you prefer."

He stepped past the doctor as if he wasn't even there and nodded to the guard on his left before leaving. "Oh, and one more thing, Edward."

He looked over his shoulder back into the hall outside the chamber where the colonel waited.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to endure some physical punishment. Not how I'd prefer to handle this, but you understand why, I'm sure," he said, shrugging apologetically and turning his back on the scene. The rusty door slammed shut, concealing the three men within from the outside world.

"So, what's it going to be? A beating? Or perhaps a spot of light torture would be more appropriate," Kirk said, looking back at the two men. He understood Royce's last words perfectly. The conversation they'd just had was one that could cause a great deal of difficulty for the good colonel, and a man in his position had to avoid difficulty like the plague. He was overseeing the questioning of a man he'd brought into the service, of course, certainly not conspiring with the prisoner.

The man on the left stepped forward. "It's always easier when they understand," he said, glancing over at his companion. "But it's only a beating for now. You'll need to look the part when you leave here, after all." His tone was light, almost friendly. The man on the right might as well have been deaf for all the emotion his face showed.

Kirk stood up and kicked the metal stool he'd been placed on to the side. "Well then, we wouldn't want to disappoint, would we?"

He'd seen this coming for days. Royce's arrival had done little but confirm his suspicions. Still, that didn't make enduring what came after any easier.

The rest of the night, or perhaps it wasn't really night, was spent laying on his meagre bedding and trying not to move. Time was essentially meaningless down in the darkness of the cells, but he'd be expected to have an answer soon.

A door slammed shut down the hall and the sudden noise jerked him out of the pile of blankets. Touching his nose, he found it covered in blood and painful to the touch. A dull ache in the ribs had kept him from sleeping and his chest felt like it'd been hit by a truck, but otherwise nothing seemed broken.

After being worked over by the guards, two men he quickly realised must be deep in Royce's pocket if they were allowed to hear that conversation, he'd been thrown back into the filthy cell. Still, he'd thought as he hit the floor, at least they hadn't made it any worse during his absence.

But it wasn't all for nothing, he knew. If Royce had taken the risk to come all the way down here, it had to be a very _personal _sort of a problem. Nobody liked to get their hands dirty if they could help it. He slammed a hand into his forehead, rolling back over and groaning. He hated to admit it, but he was out of his depth.

What was this place anyway? He brushed a finger over the rusty wall, tapping it lightly. They had to be deep underground, but that was all he could say. It certainly wasn't quite the ending he'd envisioned after fleeing their miserable little nation.

Whatever happened next, there was little he could do to alter the outcome. Perhaps there was room for some sort of manipulation, but ultimately he had no power over any of these people and they knew that all too well. The only thing left to do was wait.


	3. Chapter 3

The Alvernian military could be justifiably accused of many things, but underestimating the effect of grandeur wasn't one of them. Even border outposts on the outskirts of the nation were built to impress and intimidate both allies and enemies, rising high above the ground to tower over all but the largest buildings. Each major city was built with one of these extravagant command centres, usually serving both as a centre for military activity in the region and as one of the city's most important landmarks.

The western Merestan command centre was no exception despite its obscure location. A gleaming white fortress rose from the rows of brick warehouses in the port district, visible to all in the area and all approaching by sea. Six thick walls guarded the important offices within, the command centre itself built on artificially elevated ground and accessed by sloping roads through three of the outer walls.

Western command was unusually large for the size of the city it served, acting as both a major defensive and administrative outpost and a staging ground for operations offshore. The residents of Merestan had thought of a great many conspiracy theories over the years to explain the unusually strict security surrounding the place, but very few had any basis in reality.

The long ceremonial stairs leading to the front gate of the command centre had always unnerved Regina. Her job was to stay unnoticed and in the background, not doing so often proving extremely dangerous. The wrought iron gates, impeccable grand staircase, and guards standing at every post weren't subtle and nor were they trying to be. Still, they insisted she use the front entrance and not the transport or deployment side alternatives, so she began the long climb yet again.

She wasn't the only one making the climb. Five men further up the steps in dark blue uniform had been dropped by a truck as she was arriving. Each had a rifle on his back, and they weren't the first she'd seen.

Looking back over her shoulder, even more soldiers were taking the first step. Clearly it was going to be a busy day. Halfway up the stairs she shoved her hands in her jacket pockets, a cool wind whipping up and freezing her to the bones. Dark clouds were rolling in from the western ocean, and she knew the altitude of the command centre would make for a miserable day if it turned into a storm.

Had Rick been invited? Surely both he and Gail would be there, at least if Gail was allowed out of the hospital. He could say whatever he wanted to say here, in that case. She reached the top of the stairs, taking a look down at the front gate. Terribly inefficient way to do it, she thought, shaking her head in disgust.

The stairs opened out into a long path leading directly to the command centre, and a variety of other places if you took the right turns. The area to the sides of the path was often used as a staging ground to make motivating speeches to the troops, as it appeared would be happening soon. Too many men to count were standing in formation outside the main building, a small podium already set up before them.

"Hey, you forget your uniform? They're sending us out after this," a light voice said from behind her.

Turning back again, she saw a young soldier looking at her leather jacket and jeans. "No, I don't usually need a uniform," she said, staring at the assembled men before her. You don't gather this many soldiers unless something major's happening, she thought.

"How'd you get so lucky?" he said, standing next to her. He shook his head, smiling. "But I think I'm being stupid, you're one of _them_, aren't you?" His eyes darted over to something on the side of the grounds.

"Probably. Hope your mission goes well, soldier," she said, quickly heading for the small SORT office hidden at the far left part of the ground as he watched her leave. People in her position were advised to avoid excessive contact with the regular troops.

She could just barely see two or three officers talking on the small steps leading to the front doors of the command centre, but couldn't make out their ranks. Putting it out of her mind, she reached the SORT office and found the room with her team's number on it, swiping her identification card and looking inside.

Seeing a dimly lit, dusty and untidy room, two men were already present, one sitting on a leather couch and the other speaking to him, breathless as if he'd just ran the entire staircase. The man standing was easily identifiable as Rick from his ridiculous ponytail and dark skin. The other was facing away from her, but his muscular frame and blonde hair marked him out as the team's leader, Gail.

"Regina, is that you? You're late," he barked, turning in the chair with a slight wince of pain.

"Late for what? But never mind that, how'd your recovery go?" she said, stepping up next to Rick and taking a look at Gail's upper body for signs of blood or injury.

"You didn't see it on the way in? Lieutenant Colonel Anders is issuing orders to the companies out there, and we've been asked to listen in," he replied, ignoring the second question entirely.

"Ordered by whom, exactly?"

He waved her away in irritation. "They'll be starting any minute, and you're not even in uniform. You've got three minutes, both of you. Get ready and meet me out the front; that's not the only job we have today." Grimacing, he stood up and left the room, door slamming behind her. An unused walking stick lay on the floor next to the couch.

Rick looked at her. "He's serious, something big's going down. We'd better get moving."

Entering the small changing room at the back, they both retrieved spare uniforms from their lockers. Regina had always wondered why the rooms provided for covert agents were so poorly equipped, but it was hardly the right time to worry about that.

Disrobing as quickly as she could, she tossed her own clothes into the locker and slammed it shut before pulling on the official dark blue uniform and black combat boots. She heard Rick do the same from behind. Usually they'd take turns to use the miserable little locker room, but considering the urgency that was hardly an option.

"Done?" he said, staring at the wall.

"Yeah, but I need to ask you something."

He turned around carefully, eyes averted. "The note? I'll get to that later."

She opened the door, straightening the collar of her uniform. "Yeah, it can wait. Now we get to hear who they're sending us off to fight now."

They met Gail out the front, but he left for the staging ground without a word. When they reached the rows of soldiers, she saw one of them on the side wave at her, grinning. His youthful face and messy brown hair marked him out as the man from the steps.

He led them to a small side area where a number of other uniformed men and women stood, indistinguishable from the rank and file soldiers except by their placement. Collapsing into a chair with a slight groan, Gail focused his attention on the officers at the front. An older gentleman and a young woman with a serious expression were speaking behind the podium. Behind them a tall, irritable looking man with very broad shoulders could be seen staring out at the crowd.

Regina recognised all three vaguely. The oldest was some sort of general, she was quite sure. He was probably the highest ranked officer at the command centre. The man at the back was a colonel. She recognised his distinctive look from many of their own briefings. The blonde woman turned away from the general and approached the podium.

Every man present grew silent as she stared out at them. Respect for rank or something else entirely, Regina wondered. Anders had a reputation for leading brutal campaigns, her record far bloodier than her pleasant appearance might imply. Gail had volunteered their team for one of her operations once, and the things she'd been asked to do there had surprised her, to say the least. He'd left Rick at base for that, one of the few moments she'd ever seen him acknowledge that there are things that some men just won't do.

She realised the speech had already begun, shaking the memories away. " … captured the traitorous researcher Edward Kirk and returned him to face justice. Those who fearlessly dedicate their lives to rooting out such evil are the greatest among us. In all the nation none could be called more heroic."

Ander paused, looking out at the assembled troops. "But the work they started is not finished. The traitorous Borginians have chosen to disregard our treaties, building new prototype weapons using Kirk's vile research. This flagrant disregard for the peace we've worked so diligently to build cannot be allowed to stand."

"Their military built a research facility on an island to the south west of our nation under the guise of a peaceful energy project. Because of the fine efforts of our covert agents this facility stands empty, its personnel dead and its secrets unguarded. Even as we speak their soldiers are regrouping to take the island and its research back for their masters. In the interests of worldwide peace, such a thing can never be allowed to happen."

"Central command has considered all viable alternatives and made a wise decision. We will storm this facility, capture it, and hold it against their forces until it stands no more threat to our glorious nation!"

Watching carefully, Regina couldn't help but snort at some of the more blatant mistruths. She certainly didn't feel like a hero, but Anders had never done the slightest thing to promote peace in her memory. She glanced over at Rick next to her and could see the anger on his face. Gail looked as emotionless as ever, even bored. She could see the massed soldiers clinging onto every word, realising all too well what this could mean for them.

Soon after that Anders finished and the men dispersed. They'd be taking a docked warship to Ibis Island, a full battalion sent to that place to capture it for Alvernia. Anders herself would be leading this expedition. Whatever faults that woman had, cowardice wasn't one of them.

"Now do you see why Kirk was so important?" Gail asked, turning to look at them from his chair.

"He was making weapons, I know. Still, this is going too far," Rick murmured, looking at the floor.

"You don't have access to enough information to make that call. It's going exactly as far as it should,' he replied, gazing at the younger man.

"Hold on a minute," Regina said, looking thoughtfully from the podium to Gail. "How did you know about that? Did you know they were going to do this all along?"

"Not the invasion, but I knew we wanted the weapon for ourselves. Borginia is too dangerous as it is." He got up, gesturing at them to follow him.

He took them to the entrance of the main command centre. "After your role in the Ibis Island mission, you've been invited to meet our commander in person."

The main hall of the command centre certainly shared the exaggerated splendour of the exterior fortress. Regina's first impression was that she'd walked into a palace, and it wasn't even her first visit to the interior halls of the building. Polished black and white squares of marble lined the floor, elegant lights beaming down on the hall's occupants from above. Ceremonial guards stood by columns on the sides of the hall, every one trying to conceal their boredom and doing a reasonable job of it. Two large staircases and a great many elevators could be seen at the back.

She watched for a moment as the many soldiers and clerks in the hall went about their business, running from place to place, calling out to friends, entering and exiting through one of the many doors. Gail approached a large desk at the front and handed a card to the young woman sitting there.

"I never get used to this place,' she muttered, watching a pair of older men leave through a side door.

"Not really our scene, is it? I don't even feel right in uniform," Rick said,

"It's all this bureaucracy. We work alone, but there are thousands of people in places like this making it all come together."

"It's not all military. You know they organise the local factories from here?" he said, taking a seat on a bench by one of the many columns.

She nodded, watching Gail's short blonde hair make its way through a crowd of office workers.

"It's time. We'll be escorted up to the fourth floor. You might not have much experience outside the field, so I'll tell you how to handle this. Shut up, speak only when spoken to, and let me do the talking,' Gail said, tone indicating to them just how intent he was on ensuring that they didn't embarrass themselves before the senior officers.

Regina shared a glance with Rick and followed the older man as he took them to one of the far elevators. Two armed guards stood outside it, one opening the doors and gesturing them in. The other man searched them for weapons, hands lingering a second overlong on Regina's chest, she thought.

The elevator was quite large, comfortably fitting the three SORT members and the guardsman. He swiped some sort of identification pass and the elevator began the ascent to the fourth floor.

"Fourth floor, officer's quarters,' he announced as the doors opened on a carpeted hallway.

Gail was the first to leave, not even looking back as his team. Many beautifully carved wooden doors stood at the sides of the hall, but all were closed and many were guarded. Before long they stopped in a small tiled room before a door with its own reception desk, the tired looking man there gesturing them inside without a word.

Pulling the door open, Gail threw a look back at them before straightening his posture with an almost inaudible sigh of pain. Regina and Rick followed slightly behind him at each side, both nervous despite their better judgment.

They emerged into a large office, several desks pushed together at the front of the room before a large one at the end, two stylish windows behind it. Nobody was inside, but Gail approached a door on the side, gesturing at them to remain where they were and entering alone.

"Why do I get the feeling he's a regular visitor here?" Rick said in a whisper, looking around at the bare walls.

"He has to get his orders from somewhere, right? Usually he just sends them to us without another word."

"Yeah, but look at this place. You need a pretty impressive rank to get this kind of office. Why'd anyone that high up want to see people like us?"

She shrugged. "Maybe they want some dirty work done. I should've gone into the officer's program, would've been a lot easier."

Rick watched the door, but nothing could be seen or heard from within. "I didn't want the responsibility, thought I could do some good behind the scenes. Still did the training program, though." He snorted, leaning on a desk. "Didn't turn out quite the way we hoped, did it?"

Looking at his bitter expression, she tried to put on a reassuring face without much success.

The side door opened and both of them jumped. A female soldier came out, looking directly at them. "The colonel will see you now," she said, before leaving through the front door. Regina walked over to the door, but Rick looked over at her mouthing the word _colonel_ questioningly.

As she'd suspected, he was the same officer she'd seen in the parade ground. He was a tall, muscular man, definitely one who'd seen his share of combat, but quite gaunt despite his physique. As she entered his eyes tracked her every movement from his place behind an oak desk. She heard Rick follow but stay behind her. Gail was sitting on the front side of the desk, but he ignored their entrance.

She stood at attention and threw as official a salute as she could manage. The colonel stood up, towering over her despite her considerable height.

"So, you're the one?" he said, walking up to her. Her eyes darted over to Gail, but he was still facing the back window.

"I'm Colonel Royce, the commanding officer for the SORT units. I imagine you knew that, but I often take a somewhat distant approach to command." He stopped in front of her and took a short look at Rick. "Take a seat, and consider this an informal meeting. That you're here means you're interesting enough to be spoken to without the tedium of formality, at least for the moment." His eyes were a pale blue, almost grey, but she kept his gaze before he turned and sat back behind the desk.

She sat on the far left, and Rick took the seat next to her with Gail on his right. The small office had bookcases covering most of its walls, with a door at the back and the exit to the main office on the right. The window faced the western sky, giving a pleasant view of the sea on a cloudy day and a face full of sunlight otherwise.

For a moment he watched them silently. "As you might have guessed, I've brought the three of you here because of the Ibis Island mission. To order it was bold beyond reason, perhaps, but there was little choice and all seems to have gone well enough. I have the three of you to thank for that."

Nice to be acknowledged, she thought. Still wasn't much of an explanation.

He looked at Gail. "How much have you told them?"

"Only what was needed," he replied, looking over at his subordinates.

"You always were fond of secrecy. Still, I don't think that's going to be necessary now," Royce said.

He pulled open a drawer below the desk and dumped a stack of papers on the desk. "So, how would you describe the objective and outcome of the Ibis Island mission?" he asked, looking at Regina directly.

The focus on her was beginning to become unnerving. "At first I was under the impression we were there to either rescue or recover a missing scientist from a foreign research facility." She paused, trying to see what the colonel was thinking. "But after we found Kirk, things became clearer. The energy project was real, but the same tech was being used to develop what they called an 'ultimate weapon'."

"That came as a surprise to all of us, though I really should've expected it," Royce said, a light smile on his face.

"After Gail's injury I recaptured Kirk, but by then it was pretty obvious he was of lesser importance that I'd anticipated," she said, meeting his gaze and leaning back in her seat.

Gail's face twitched, obviously furious at the veiled insult she'd given. But Royce looked unconcerned. "Close, but not quite. The data was the true objective, but Kirk was hardly a distraction. Having him here will make things much easier."

"So what's the real goal? And what's changed to make someone like you explain this personally to people like us?"

He stood up and looked out the window at the storm brewing over the western sea. "Follow that ocean west and you'll soon find yourself in the Borginian Republic."

"Despite the public image of our relations with them, calm if not friendly, you'll find all of that a complete lie. We've been staging operations designed to sabotage their economy, slow their technological advancement, and cripple their armed forces for all that time, and they've done exactly the same."

He turned back to look at all three of them. "You're saying what we did was just part of a larger plan?" Rick asked.

"You're surprised? Perhaps I overestimated you," Royce said, a slight shadow of irritability tainting his expression. "It was an important part of the plan, something I didn't fully understand until you returned, but you didn't seriously think that was all of it?"

He waved their attempts to answer away. "And the outcome? What were your thoughts on that?"

"As far as I can see you've got Kirk and some of the information Rick found, but not the weapons data,' Regina said. "Might've been easier if you just told us what you wanted to start with." She refused to be intimidated by Royce just because of his rank.

"Gail's love of secrecy is to blame for that, though I understand his reasons. And your opinion on the announcement you just heard?"

"I could say the Borginians might take sending a battalion to one of their border outposts as an act of war, but you'd already know that. I just wonder why. What's the point?"

"Recovering the data is one thing, but that entire facility is still intact and empty. If they protest, we can share what they were doing there with the rest of the world." He shrugged, looking through the papers on his desk. "We'll take it for ourselves under the guise of protecting the world if they protest or take it silently if they don't."

Listening to him speak, she had to recall all the missions she'd diligently completed over the past five years. Was all of it just a series of small scenes in the plans of men like him? She knew all too well what it meant that he was explaining this to them. The ruthlessness of that last utterance alone made it obvious.

"You want them to attack, don't you?"

"I don't deny it would be convenient. Perhaps you're not in a position to notice, but our nation relies heavily on military success. Besides, actually letting them have that technology is out of the question."

Gail turned to look at them. "The Ibis Island mission was only the first part."

"Indeed it was. It's not the first time I've noticed your team's ability to achieve unusually difficult objectives, Gail, but you lost half your men to do it this time. Still, I suppose that doesn't matter. I have new orders for the three of you."

He walked over to the room's other door and opened it. "Lieutenant Colonel? They're ready for you."

Looking over her shoulder, Regina saw a darkened hall through the door. A young woman with an impeccable uniform stepped through, the same one she'd watched make the speech earlier.

If Royce made her look short, the effect he had next to Anders, who was only of average height, was even more pronounced. He took his seat, and she stood next to him at the desk.

"You're the technical expert, correct?" he asked, looking at Rick over the table. Rick nodded, but didn't seem able to speak. "Considering the prowess you showed with those Borginian security systems, I'll be assigning you to Lieutenant Colonel Anders' command. You'll accompany her to Ibis Island and oversee security and data collection once the base is captured."

"Wait, you're assigning me to a regular unit?" Rick spluttered, slamming his hands on the table.

"The three of you are going to be of limited use from here out as raid team operatives. Things are going to change quite a bit, as you'll find out for yourselves."

"It's quite the promotion," Anders said, looking down at Rick. "You'll be a lieutenant in my staff with all the benefits that brings."

"I wouldn't worry so much, Lieutenant," Royce said when he saw the look on Rick's face. "You're hardly being separated from your team."

He looked at Regina again, and she guessed the next words he'd say. "You're being reassigned to my personal staff, also as an officer. You'll be advising me on this operation and performing various other duties as needed."

Well, she'd expected it. Advising was understandable enough, but the 'other duties' had a rather ominous note to it. She stood to give an official response, but he waved her away.

"You're quite welcome. Anders, take your new officer and give him the details. You'll be leaving in three days."

"At once, sir," she said, opening the door and waiting at its side for Rick. Regina realised her expression hadn't changed once from the moment she'd entered. He followed, looking back at Regina as if bewildered by what had just happened. Anders closed the door behind him without another word.

She sat there with the two men feeling very much alone. "From tomorrow on you'll be reporting to this office, Regina. I suppose you do have a surname?" he said, shoving most of the papers back into the drawer they came from.

"I imagine you'll find one on my recruitment forms, sir."

"Perhaps it's easier that you don't have one, actually." He paused, looking at a row of indicators on the side wall. "Gail, would you take this to my receptionist?" he said, handing him two documents. Gail stood up without another word, taking a look back at them as he left.

The door slammed shut behind him. She had the distinct impression that this entire process was highly unorthodox.

"Now that we're alone, _sir, _could I ask some questions?"

He watched her, face expressionless, before nodding.

"Why would you take half a raid team and bring them into your personal staff like this?"

"As opposed to more traditional recruitment methods? You understand our position, have demonstrated abilities, and have finished the basic officer training course anyway."

He's lying, she thought. The slight smirk on his face was enough to give it away, but she had to consider he'd know that.

"And this operation. What's the real motivation?" She knew she could be pushing too hard, but persisted anyway.

His smirk grew, completely focused on her. "The only question that actually matters. I think you'll find it answered before long, but doing so now would be problematic. Security reasons, you understand."

He stood up again, and she took the opportunity to do the same. "You'll find the transition a difficult one to start with, I think," he said. "You need to understand that this is a dangerous place. We all wear the same uniform, but the people in that uniform can be just as vicious and self-serving as any you saw in the field."

"I don't think my abilities are suited to this position."

"That's naiveté speaking. Give it a month and you'll understand all too well why someone like you is ideal for this place."

She watched for a moment, but any trace of emotion on Royce's face had vanished. Clearly the meeting was over.

As the sun set that night she found herself back in the dingy hotel room, the dirt and filth of the world outside the command centre almost a surprise after the meeting with Colonel Royce. Five years of lying, manipulation, and spying had taught her to see the warning signs, at least. It was difficult to say what that meant.

She poured a glass of cheap whiskey and looked out the small window at the street below. The threatening clouds from the west had stayed there, leaving the street below quiet and dry.

After the meeting with the Colonel she'd expected Gail to come back and explain things but he'd vanished entirely. The freshly delivered lieutenants' uniform lay on her bed. She'd tried it on, finding the thick blue material comfortable enough, and certainly impressive in the mirror. Perhaps her fears were unfounded, she thought, considering that Rick had the harder assignment by far.

Despite her concerns, there was something about intrigue that appealed to her. If this was the price you had to pay for access to restricted information, it was one she knew she'd pay willingly.


	4. Chapter 4

Life in Merestan went on much the way it always had for most in the three days after that meeting despite the preparations at the port and the intrigues in western command. The warship docked in the military port was a hub of activity the entire time, never resting for even a moment. Weapons and supplies were loaded. Anxious guards watched every corner of the area, officers organized for the upcoming expedition and soldiers prepared for deployment.

On the scheduled morning Rick found himself waited with his new boss in the port offices. He'd barely had a moment's rest since leaving Royce's office, being sent from place to place for training, introductions, and outfitting. His hasty promotion had come as a surprise, but not as much of a surprise as the ease with which he was settling into the role. Anders was efficient, calm, and technically minded, so they at least had that to work with. She listened to his explanations without ever showing confusion and showed some appreciation for his work. More than Gail ever had, at any rate.

They were sitting there silently in the lounges. Anders and four of her other men had arrived while the soldiers were loaded into the transports. She'd been taking calls and receiving documents every few minutes, but the rest of them had nothing to do but wait.

He watched her curiously. She couldn't be much older than thirty, but as far as he could tell she had a lot of influence with the other officers. They'd had a meeting the night before, one which he hadn't been invited to, but he saw the respect she was given from the other officers. He'd caught a glimpse of Royce himself earlier that morning meeting her privately.

"Is there a problem, Lieutenant?" she asked, having caught him staring.

"No, not really, uh, sir. This is all kind of new to me, you know?" he replied, deciding not to lie.

"You'll adjust quickly enough. Similar work, but less shooting and more respect."

He nodded, averting his eyes. Her constantly disinterested tone reminded him of Regina, but it lacked his friend's warmth. Regina acted detached, but he knew there was more to her than the act.

"Is it our destination? You lost half your team there, I recall," she said, looking through a pile of papers while speaking.

It was a valid question, he knew. If he'd only been more careful Tom might not have died, and he hadn't forgotten that for a moment. "It was dangerous enough when we were there. Now we're taking a full force and expecting Borginia to do the same. I just see how this could go wrong, that's all."

"Judging from the schematics you brought back, that facility is going to be one of the easiest places to defend I've ever seen. We'll take it first, and they can kill themselves trying to take it back. It's a fairly routine assignment, all things considered. Excuse me." She rose to take a call, and Rick felt almost relieved.

After another hour of waiting she declared it time for them to leave. Leaving the comfortable offices for the warmth of a rare sunny Merestan day, he saw a group of officers in the distance watching the last of the soldiers loading onto the ships. He almost turned away before he saw a flash of red among the crowd.

Definitely her, he thought. Nobody else he'd ever known had hair like that. He waved, trying to attract her attention. Anders looked slightly irritated, he saw, but said nothing. Their path took them close to the other officers and he used the opportunity to slip over.

"Hey, Regina," he called, attracting the attention of more than just her.

She watched as he approached but didn't move. "How's the new job working out?"

"The job's not the problem, same old stuff really. You know nobody's better at what I do," he said, pausing for a moment. "Still, I never wanted to see Ibis Island again."

"They must really want Kirk's data," she said, looking over at the ships.

"It can't just be that. They've got Kirk, so why take such huge risks?"

She shrugged. "Ask your new boss, I bet she knows."

"Don't give me that. What do you really think?"

The officers accompanying Regina started heading for the port office, one handing her a note as he left. "I don't know what to think. We're not being told the full story, but we're just the grunts."

Rick felt himself getting annoyed. Regina's apathy, so at odds with her actions, had frustrated him for years. "Well I intend to find out. We're the good guys, right? That's what we both said when we signed up. Can you honestly say you still believe that?"

She stared at him but said nothing. Anders was speaking to a group of port officials, he noted, before looking back at Regina. "That's what I thought," he murmured, rubbing his weary eyes with one hand.

"So the military does some bad things. What can you do about that?"

"Maybe nothing. But I have to try. It makes me sick every time I ignore what's right because of orders. We went to Ibis Island thinking we were going to rescue an energy researcher. Then we find out we're there to kidnap the guy for making weapons, but only so he can make weapons for _us_ instead. But you know what really got to me? I wasn't even surprised that they lied."

She laughed, but there was no humour in it. "You're an idealist, Rick. This is the last place you should be."

"Maybe you're right," he said, before pausing and looking to see if they were being watched. "But maybe this is exactly where I should be." He reached into his side pocket and withdrew a small disc, pressing it into her hand under the guise of shaking it.

Pocketing it without looking, she didn't even look surprised. "So what's this?"

"I'm sick of sitting back and taking it. I had access to the servers in the port office, so I bypassed their security and copied the entire database."

"Why am I not surprised?" She sounded exasperated, but he knew she'd help him. "I'll assume you're smart enough not to get caught. What do want me to do with it?"

"Find out what's really going on. I don't know how much is kept on those servers, but there should be something." He gestured back at the ship and waiting officers. "I'm not going to have the chance, so it's going to have to be you."

She looked ready to argue the point but stopped, suddenly looking quite serious. "Look after yourself, okay? Don't blame yourself if it goes wrong and try to come back in one piece. I'll see what I can find out here, but I don't know how much that'll be." She paused, looking back at the ship. "And watch out for Anders. Some of the things I've heard about her aren't exactly pleasant."

"Yeah, I know. But thanks, Regina. Without you I'd be completely alone," he said, flashing a half-hearted smile at her before turning back toward the ship.

Despite her cynicism, he knew she felt the same way he did. There was such a difference between what they were told they were doing and the results of those actions. So much of what they did only caused more harm, but he'd never understood why. Who benefited from causing so much misery?

Alvernia was a military state in all but name, he knew, but its citizens lived comfortable lives and it restrained itself from excessive imperialism. As a student he'd been quite politically active, drawn to activism by his strong sense of ethics. At the time he'd been protesting the military's influence in economics. There was an element of central planning in the Alvernian economy and more and more of those resources had been siphoned off for military uses as time passed.

Joining the military wasn't unusual, even for activists. So many functions were managed from the command centres that a great number of people had some connection to the army. It hadn't quite been what he'd hoped, but concentrating on the welfare of the people around him had helped him to forget that.

Reaching the officers, Anders turned away from the dock officials. They boarded the ships without any real ceremony, receiving a quick tour from some of the crew before being left to their own devices. His own quarters were small but quite comfortably outfitted. A small window looked out on the open ocean, but he'd never been fond of the sea.

The next few days passed without much incident, to the point where he found himself bored. Ibis Island was not so far as that, but they'd stopped the day before on official orders. The soldiers were growing irritable and so was everyone else. Being stuck on a cramped ship for no real reason was extremely frustrating, and he found himself waiting on the open deck just to avoid claustrophobia.

That was where he found himself on the afternoon of the fourth day. By then he'd found a comfortable spot away from prying eyes to sit and think. The ocean was calm, but dark clouds could be seen in the far west. The weather changed very quickly, he'd learned, and so even the outdoors wasn't truly comfortable. He wasn't the only one trying to escape the cramped halls, but he'd spoken to very few of the other men since arriving. The other officers were polite but distant. At first he'd assumed that was because of his unusual background, but none of them seemed particularly friendly even among each other.

He watched a smaller transport ship to the warship's side as three men patrolled the top deck, but a young voice interrupted his thoughts. "Sir? You're wanted at a meeting in the officers' quarters."

He looked back, feeling a slight breeze pick up in the west. "Really? What do they want this time?"

The messenger, a man who looked as though he'd only been recruited within the last year, looked worried, as if he wasn't used to be asked follow-up questions. "I… well, I'm not sure, sir, but some of the sailors said we might be moving out soon."

Well, shit, he thought. Unpleasant as the ocean was, he almost preferred it to the thought of Ibis Island. "All right, thanks," he said, nodding and heading back down into the ship.

He reached the meeting room within five minutes, seeing most of the other officers already present. Anders was sitting behind a small desk, the entire thing covered in papers. She looked bored, at least as far as he could tell, but most of the others seemed anxious. One woman to his left was sweating profusely.

"Sit down," Anders said as he entered, waving at a seat near the door. He noticed within the first three days alone her distaste for ceremony.

She rose, looking blankly at them all. "We've received new orders from command. The Borginian recovery force is still a day away, so we'll be moving on the island tonight."

"Why'd we even have to wait in the first place? One day's not enough to set up a proper defence," asked a middle aged man near the front, who Rick had gathered was in charge of securing the facility.

"We became aware after embarking that the facility may still have been at risk of some sort of violent explosion. Between waiting a few days and risking so many soldiers, the choice was obvious."

Does that mean Kirk's working with them now? Rick knew he was a captive, but they'd barely spoken of him once. Nobody else would've known enough about the Third Energy to confirm the risk.

The older officer nodded, satisfied with the answer. Anders waited for a moment and then continued. "There are some other changes. Capturing this island is the most essential goal we have, at least for now. It will need to be done with as much efficiency as we can manage."

"What do you mean by efficiency?" Rick said, interrupting her monologue.

"I mean there's no room for error. Every last man they send to retake the island will be killed in action, and the facility itself must be kept undamaged as much as possible." She watched him, an odd look on her face. "You would understand better than anyone; if the facility is destroyed this entire exercise is completely worthless."

She turned away, looking back at the senior officers in front. "We've also been warned that internal threats are becoming an issue. Insurgents in the ranks and revolutionaries at home have caused unacceptable amounts of damage in the last three months alone."

The woman to his left nodded. "An armoury bombed, another two looted, and a major murdered in his own quarters, all right under the major general's nose."

"Hardly a surprise, is it?" Anders asked. "Don't expect such issues here. Still, internal security is monitoring any potential threats carefully."

Rick recalled hearing idle talk among the men regarding unrest in the border cities, but yet again he realised he was uninformed. Where did these revolutionaries come from, and what did they want? He didn't ask.

"There's another island near here that could prove problematic, sir," one of the younger officers said. "It's a military supply base for Borginia. Small, but it could support a siege against our position almost indefinitely."

"Yes, you're right. But I wouldn't worry about that; a SORT unit was sent to sabotage it some time ago," she replied, barely sparing a glance at the man.

"You don't find that much aggression excessive, sir? Rick saw at once the officer had overstepped. The room fell silent, and Anders finally gave her full attention to the briefing.

"Not in the least, Morton. Neither would you, if only you were aware of the circumstances that made such action necessary," she said. Rick let out the breath he'd been holding, expecting any insolence to be taken far more seriously. His new superior reminded him of Gail, right down to the hair, but Gail was stern – this woman seemed completely disinterested in those around her.

The room was silent for a moment. He looked to his right at the outspoken young officer. The man was clearly irritated, but refrained from any further comments. One of the older officers rose and began speaking of logistics in a droning monotone, and Rick was one of the few to give the man his full attention. If he must be an officer, he was determined to be a good one.

The briefing lasted another hour, most of which was taken up by matters of supply and strategy. Anders and three of her men left with barely a word halfway through the logistics officer's speech, and Rick left no more informed than when he'd entered.

He wandered aimlessly but inevitably found himself in his usual spot on the open deck. The sky was darker and a strong breeze had blown in during their meeting, but the air was warm. He gripped the railing and exhaled, trying to calm himself for the return to Ibis Island.

"Looks like we're going to have to go in under a storm, huh?" a voice asked from behind.

Surprised but not alarmed, Rick looked over his shoulder and saw the insolent young officer from the briefing. The man before him was tall, very muscular, and had short blonde hair which badly needed styling. He shook his head, convinced for the slightest moment the man was a younger Gail. Looking again, he saw the difference in height and the softer, almost friendlier facial features that distinguished the two.

"Looks that way," he replied, turning back to the sea as the officer approached the railing. "Doesn't make much difference to me."

He saw the man's gaze move from the rough waters to his face. "I suppose not." The officer's eyes narrowed, but he seemed reluctant to speak his mind.

"You've done this before, right?" Rick asked, thinking of the masses of soldiers below.

"I'm a TRAT officer. This is all we do," the man replied. "But surely you've seen action. Not often that they bring in someone new like this unless they've got something to offer. Not to this unit, anyway."

Rick found that strange and looked at the man to see if he was joking at his expense. "I've seen more action than most, but not in the army. You weren't told why I'm here?"

"We were told that you were a technical expert with an 'espionage background' and that was it," he said, a disdainful smirk on his face. "I'd have pushed further but you saw how Anders is, and she's the only one who knows." He shrugged. "Other than you, of course."

It all seemed rather ridiculous to Rick, but he found the unwarranted secrecy unsettling. "Look, I've been here for barely a week. Before that I was a field operative. They've got me here for a very specific reason, but don't think I'm going to get on the wrong side of a lieutenant colonel just to satisfy your curiosity."

The man laughed, brushing his windswept hair back into place. "No? Probably the smart thing to do, but we'll see about that." He held out his hand and Rick grasped it. "I'm First Lieutenant Morton, but you might as well as well forget the formality and call me Dylan. No need for formality among friends, right?" he said, leaning back on the railing. A few drops of rain started to fall.

Despite his suspicions, Rick found he appreciated the company. Morton was soft spoken but quite charismatic despite that. He wasn't a solitary man by nature and found it difficult to be without the support of friends for long.

"I'm Rick, same rank. You'll have to tell me more about being in the service."

"No surname? Easy way to spot a spook. Let's head back to the officer's rooms and find a quiet corner. There's a lot to share and not much time," Dylan said, gesturing back at the stairwell.

It was something he'd tried not to dwell on, but Rick's dissatisfaction with the military and the things it did was never far from his mind. Could Morton share those feelings? Well, he considered, even if he didn't, it was going to be a lonely mission without at least one friend, and the other officer was clearly willing to trade information. Whatever they expected to happen on Ibis Island, he wasn't going to go back there unprepared.

They spent the rest of the afternoon chatting and joking. Light conversation, quite cheerful, but each man found what he was looking for, and when the sun set the order to seize Ibis Island was finally given.


	5. Chapter 5

The desk was covered in maps and paperwork, and the maps were covered in scribbles. The Colonel's office was comfortably equipped and stylishly outfitted. Polished blue and white tiles lined the floor around the six officer's desks in the centre of the room, and the two entrances. Royce's desk and a smaller one to its side lay at the far side of the room, the hot summer sun shining through two carved windows behind.

The maps covered Regina's desk, and she'd spent the entire afternoon scrawling notes and markings on them at the Colonel's behest. One was of Ibis Island, a blank satellite image taken the week before. Another was of Borginia itself, and covered in notes and numbers linked to observations. Only five of the room's eight desks were occupied. She and four others were under his direct command, all selected, she'd learned, for their particular talents. The other two seats were reserved for the lieutenant colonel and her assistant, and had been collecting dust for over a week since their departure for Ibis Island.

Adjusting to office work had been difficult. The work itself was easy, the company tolerable, and the rank came with much greater access to information than she was used to having, but she'd never adjusted to tedium or routine easily. She passed over the Borginian map to a stern faced woman to her left. Much of her work was educational; Royce had her learning all sorts of information and memorising maps of important places.

The door opened and a short man entered, clearly exhausted. He collapsed into a spare seat across from her, ignored the filthy look the desk's occupant threw at him and dumped a stack of papers on the table.

"I'm never going to understand this place's obsession with paperwork. What'd they invent computers for?" he mumbled, passing sheets to the four of them.

"Hey, I make a complaint every year, and every year they ignore me. Royce likes his paperwork and you're his personal assistant, Mirzin. You deal with it," said the woman to her left, an officer named Kesler with a history in the infantry, or so Regina gathered.

Mirzin shrugged, slumped in his seat and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He looked over at Regina. "This island of yours is ruining my life, Regina. Ever since you showed up I've been lucky to get an hour's sleep without someone bothering me.

She couldn't help but smile at that. One of the first things she'd learned was that formality was optional after the senior officers left, or even when they were there if the time was right. "Isn't that how it always works?" she asked, picking up the document he'd thrown over.

"Depends, really. This is the Colonel's pet project. He's in the command centre twenty hours a day lately. Never knew command was so time consuming," Mirzin said, pouring himself a drink. He turned to the man at the other end of the table and passed an envelope to him, and Regina looked at the document, a status report on the expedition to Ibis Island.

"So they've landed on the island and seized the upper levels and the lowest level. The lieutenant colonel set up defensive positions around the facility, including in the positions I marked, how nice," she mumbled, picturing the research facility. "Hostile creatures as described have been encountered, but many are malnourished and pose little threat. Orders to exterminate on sight, though the generator floor has been sealed by automatic security, technical expert is investigating – must be Rick, he'll love that. Three survivors encountered, injured and barely living." she finished, brushing the page while lost in thought.

She shook herself out of it and looked up in time to see the man Mirzin passed an envelope to leave, an obviously troubled look on his face. "So, it's all gone to plan then," she said.

Kesler threw her update down. "You forget the only important part," she said. "Borginian recovery force within half a day of the island. Skirmishes might be common, but command wants every man they send killed."

"How is it the public knows none of this? We can't just kill an entire strike force and pretend it didn't happen," Regina asked.

Mirzin looked puzzled. "You were SORT, right? How many of your 'adventures' ever went public? Media do what they're told, much like everyone else, and Borginia don't want anyone to know about their secret weapons projects, so they're not likely to tell anyone." He sipped at his glass of water and leaned forward. "The things we do here are on a larger scale, maybe, but not so different from what you're used to."

"Still, it's dangerous. The Colonel's pushing the limits and it's showing. When Hereson was in charge of espionage you'd never seen something like this," Kesler said, glancing over at the main doors.

Then the last officer on the end desk, a grim man who must have been in his fifties who'd been entirely silent up to then, spoke and surprised them all. "Hereson was so cautious nothing ever got done. Royce is ambitious, and we're in this mess." He shrugged, as if it wasn't his concern in the least. "The diplomatic method got Hereson promoted to major general. We'll see where the Colonel's way takes him."

Mirzin laughed. "Either way, I bet we're not going to be stuck in this office for thirty years under Royce like you were under Hereson. All the way to the top, right Pretsin?"

"Or the bottom," the older man murmured. "Not much for us to do right now anyway, big plans or not."

"But you're still on duty, so here you are. Speaking of which," Mirzin said, looking back at an antique grandfather clock by the wall, "I've finally got some time off, a whole twelve hours. Could sleep, but then I'd be back here without a break."

Regina broke out of her thoughts and saw the fading sun through the window. "Looks like I'm off too."

"I swear you get twice as much down time as I do. Still, want to get some drinks? Might be our last chance for a while," Mirzin asked.

She paused to consider that. Mirzin was charismatic and definitely better company than the other officers. He likely had other motives, either personal or professional, but that worked both ways.

"Sure, but only if you know somewhere that's _not _a shithole like everywhere else I've been in this city," she said, rising from her seat and shoving the stack of papers in a drawer.

They left the Colonel's office, passing the two armed guards outside and the receptionist, and then the next set of armed guards in the main hall outside, each one saluting as if they were important. Were they important, she thought? It was a completely different environment to field work, but often felt no less hostile.

Despite the impending sunset the streets were no less hot. The roads burned and their thick uniforms made it even worse. Merestan's weather was anything but predictable, and a cool day of dark clouds and rain could be followed by a week of burning heat.

"There's a place on the western side of the city near the coast. Bad area, good service. Usually I'd suggest changing into better clothes, but we could be called back at any minute, even if they did promise me twelve hours off there's no reason to believe them," he said while wiping sweat off his forehead.

"Right."

"You'll see. I took Kesler out for drinks once, but she's not the social type. Pretsin doesn't like me, so he's out. Even invited that blonde agent once, but he didn't even answer me. Sure is hard to find good company,' he said as they turned into a small lane, terribly indignant if his tone was to be believed, and she was quite sure it wasn't.

"Blonde agent? Big guy? Stern face and muscles?" she asked, suddenly taking an interest in his chatter.

"Yeah, that's the guy. Or a guy. How many blonde meatheads can there be in one office?"

"Why invite him?"

"He'd been hanging around for weeks. I figured the Colonel must have put him on, and since I'm his personal assistant…" Mirzin said, shrugging. "He still shows up sometimes, but I figure it's not my business."

They passed into a small street facing the western ocean. The buildings were carved from stone slabs, quite old, and many had boarded up doors and windows despite their ornate appearance. Few stores were open despite the indications that it was a commercial area, and the only notable hub of activity was a well lit outdoor dining area on the side of the street.

Regina put the thought of Gail out of her mind. Clearly he was valued by the officers, but that wasn't so unusual. She looked at her travelling companion, watched his short, lean body, carefree expression, and realised he wasn't to be underestimated. He knew more than his words implied.

"This is the place. The only place, really. Clean, cheap, quiet," Mirzin said, pointing up the street. Two passers-by watched them carefully, she noticed, eyes fixed on their uniforms, before moving ahead.

They entered the establishment, one which didn't seem to bother with a name. As he said, it was clean, busy, and comfortable. They found a table up the back and ordered, but Regina was still surprised to find both the tables and glasses free of filth.

"Wouldn't have expected it, really, looking at the street outside," she murmured, looking over at the bar.

Mirzin's smile didn't fade, but grew less sincere, or so she judged it. "It's always been a poor area. But these are good people, and it's the life that's been forced on them. Disgraceful, really. Twenty minutes walk from western command and the conditions are like this," he said.

He looked up, almost alarmed. "Still, I didn't say that. Right?'

She watched him and slowly nodded. "Right."

"And I also didn't say that this place doesn't officially exist, and isn't officially taxed."

"Explains the dirty looks we've been getting," she said, finishing her glass of vodka, which was incredibly cheap for the quality.

Mirzin looked around then back before shrugging. "Uniformed officials aren't always welcome, you know?"

"I can imagine," she said as the waitress refilled her glass. "So, do you invite all your new colleagues out for drinks at the pub that doesn't exist?"

"Only the interesting ones. You get an interesting bunch in Royce's outfit, but you and your buddies are especially interesting," he replied, a smug grin on his face. "Besides, I never like to drink alone if I can help it."

"I suppose you want me to tell you why I was promoted out of the espionage division?"

"No, I already know that."

She watched him, silent and waiting.

"You're surprised? It'd be difficult to be the Colonel's personal assistant if he hid every minor detail from me."

"You're a good actor. I suspected, but couldn't be sure,' she said, sipping at her drink.

"Nothing to worry about. All on the same side, right?" he replied, watching an increasingly heated argument between three men behind her. "It's a difficult situation for you, I'm sure, but things seem to be going to plan."

"Everyone's been telling me that. What is the plan, exactly? Capture the island, perfect that maniac's research, and then what?" she said, unable to disguise her bitterness. "I always liked to think there was some goal, some justification that made it all worthwhile." She shrugged, drained her glass, and pushed it away. "Now that I'm here all I see is one group of power hungry fools conspiring against another. Why even bother?"

Mirzin listened and didn't immediately answer. "I thought the same thing, you know?" he said, waving at the surroundings and the door. "I grew up around here. Kasin district by the coast. Childhood of poverty and misery gives you good reason to think that way, especially when you look up from the pile of shit you live in and see that bloody command centre." Again his cheerfulness seemed to fade like it had never been there.

"So what changed your mind? Still looks like a shithole to me the second you leave the command centre," she said, resisting the urge to mock him.

"I learned why things are as they are. I studied economic theory, I made friends in the highest and lowest places, and I landed this position. Seemed that way to me too; all we do is cause more misery." The waitress returned and Regina refused a refill, but Mirzin took her glass for himself and drained both.

He rubbed his even more bloodshot eyes and looked back up at her. "You're not obligated to believe me, but I think Royce has a plan. He's not like the others, Hereston and the rest. And definitely not the fucking government, every last one of them paid off by someone or other."

She watched, still silent. She'd often found men most responsive (especially half-drunk nostalgic men) when allowed to ramble uninterrupted.

"One day he's going to make a move, it's the only thing he can do. I'll be there then, and then we'll pay it all back in full. You can be a part of it, you know? All of us, even that fucking Kirk if he sees sense."

Finally he had her attention in full. Certainly what he was saying interested her, but it could easily just be the drunken wishes of a bitter man. "What do you mean, if Kirk sees sense?"

He looked up, eyes slowly focusing. "He's been locked up ever since you brought him back, but he refuses to speak. Don't think I ought to say anything more than that."

She didn't bother asking him anything else. They sat there for nearly another hour, but as far as she could tell the man hadn't eaten or slept for nearly a day and the fatigue was catching up with him. She looked around for the waitress and found her arguing with two of the fighting men, the third having been kicked to the floor.

"Excuse me; do you know a place I can take him for the night? A rented room would be fine," she asked, drawing a filthy look from one of the men and a tired one from the miserable waitress.

"We rent rooms, but not to Alvernian officers. I'm sorry," she said, shrugging apologetically. "You can try the Stone Inn, go up the street from here and follow the left road until you see the sign." That said she turned back to the men and insisted they leave. They refused, but a bouncer with muscles to put Gail to shame came over and they reconsidered and left peacefully.

"Come on Mirzin, don't be so pathetic. Get up and let's go," she snapped, returning to the table and finding him resting his head on its formerly clean surface.

He rose reluctantly and she supported him out the door, complaining bitterly to herself about people who don't know their limits. And suppose if he was called back in an emergency? Drinking in illegal pubs isn't much of a reason for lateness.

The streets were dark, only lit by the odd weak lamppost. Her own hotel was somewhere in the same district, she vaguely recalled. Or perhaps it was the district next to it. Tiredness was beginning to creep in, but she immediately snapped out of it upon hearing gunshots several streets down.

She threw Mirzin down in a side alley and listened intently. After a short reprieve more shots were fired in the same area, one burst and then another.

"We don't want to be here," mumbled Mirzin as he slowly got to his feet. She ignored him and continued listening, one hand on the pistol concealed under her uniform. More shots, and footsteps approaching on the other side of the street. She felt a firm hand pull her into the alley, and Mirzin gestured at her to remain completely silent.

They watched as four men ran up the other side of the street, two armed with rifles, one with a submachine gun and the last with a pistol. As they passed she drew her pistol and waited, but they remained unnoticed.

"This isn't good. We need to get out of here now, or it's going to get worse," Mirzin whispered, pulling her further back and turning. The alley was completely dark, but seemed the only alternative to braving the streets.

"What the hell's going on out there?" she asked, following him down a left turn and then a right.

"Not sure. Sounds like they attacked the government storehouses, just when I was finally getting some rest."

"Who are 'they'?" she asked, listening to the sound of an alarm in the distance.

"Revolutionaries, maybe. Anti-government insurgents might have done it too, usually they're hired men. Lots of people with the guns and motivation to steal from a government storehouse, to be honest," he replied as they turned onto a small brick road. Gunfire could still be heard, but it was further in the distance as they moved through the city. He sank down against a stone wall and rubbed his head, clearly in pain.

"I'm taking you back to the command centre. You can sleep on a bench if you have to, but clearly it's not safe out here," Regina said to him, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"No, it isn't. Best get off the streets if you're smart," said a voice from down the street. She looked over and saw two men, instantly recognising them as the fighters from the pub. The larger of the two was in front, and his comment clearly wasn't intended as friendly advice. The man behind was holding a pistol at his side, half concealed in the dim light of a failing street lamp.

She smiled brightly at them. "We'll do just that. Never knew this place was so dangerous when they asked me to do their admin work here." Mirzin leaned on the wall, again looking barely conscious, but he met her gaze for a brief second.

The first man laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "Everywhere's dangerous, lady. But you're out of luck. Government officials are always worth a good ransom, and I've seen that drunk before with the kind of scum who pay the real money." He turned his head in thought. "But maybe we'll keep you both for a while as our guests, what do you say? This way, unless you'd like to make it difficult," he said, gesturing at them to follow. His companion flashed his pistol, but they didn't seem to expect much resistance.

Regina threw the assistant's arm over her shoulder and helped him forward. "You'll regret this," she spat at the man as they approached.

He laughed at that. "Not nearly as much as you'll regret leaving the house this morning after a few days with us." There wasn't a trace of humour in his eyes to match the laughter.

She reached where he was standing. Mirzin turned and threw up, narrowly avoiding the kidnapper's boots. He scowled and stepped back, and Regina threw Mirzin at the man; they collapsed into a heap of limbs. The shooter raised his pistol in a second, but she seized his arm and pulled it down with a crunch. The gun fell to the ground and the man screamed in agony, the pale white bone sticking out of his lower arm.

Mirzin managed to hold the other man to the floor despite his state, and Regina seized the fallen gun and shot the gunman through the head. She turned to do the same to the other when Mirzin protested, waving his arms weakly.

"Wait, wait," he cried, and the man stopped struggling, seizing onto the small hope he'd been given.

"Don't get in the way, you idiot," she snapped.

"You're worse than dead, both of you. You think Kosra's going to let you kill his men and get away with it?" spat their captive in apparent anger, but his shaking hands and the slight quiver in his voice gave away his fright.

"Who? Never mind, not really interested," she replied, raising the pistol.

Again Mirzin interrupted. "Kosra runs a pro-Borginian militia. If we take this guy back alive at a time like this it could make all the difference."

It was against her better judgement, but she ultimately agreed and took the man back at gunpoint. The first armed patrol they passed, one stationed at the end of a prominent street in light of the attack, questioned them and gave them an escort to the command centre immediately upon hearing their commander's name. The time, Regina realised, was nearing midnight as they approached one of the secondary entrances past an anti-air emplacement. The heavy gates opened as they approached and four armoured trucks exited as their escort drove into the cavernous supply tunnels under the wall of the command centre.

As predicted, the man was of particular interest to the officers, though only Pretsin remained of the five stationed there. The lower levels of the command centre were especially busy, but the prisoner was taken away by stern-faced guards and Mirzin was taken to the barracks.

Regina sat in the empty office, leaning back in the antique wooden chair by her desk. The room was dark, only a pale stream of moonlight and a small lamp on the wall next to the door on the side wall provided any light. A brass plate on the door marked 'Col. Anton Royce' gleamed in the light, and that was the man she was there to see. Pretsin left with barely a word shortly after she arrived.

The main doors opened and Anton Royce stepped through. She rose and gave the appropriate salute, but he took a seat opposite her, clearly irritated.

"Difficult night for all of us, it seems," he said, watching her from across the desk. He waved her off when she attempted to speak. "I've heard the details from my assistant. I could reprimand you for being at such an establishment, especially in uniform, but that seems a minor detail. You should know the western coastal districts are popular with dissidents and military officials are, on occasion, shot dead in the street."

"Anyway," he continued, "I'm here for a different reason. We've received an update from Ibis Island, though I've chosen not to release it generally at this time."

She waited, watching his body language and his choice of words. Mirzin's approval of the man surprised her, considering the other details he revealed. Perhaps there was more to him than she thought.

"The facility was more secure than they'd anticipated, but your friend managed to restore access to all but the generator itself. The lieutenant colonel assures me it's a temporary setback. They've secured the facility itself, but the forest is still full of those fascinating creatures. Borginian scouts have landed, but I don't expect they'll survive long."

"Sounds like good news to me, sir. Why not release it?"

He leaned forward, eyes glancing at the door. "You understand, I presume, that the Third Energy is the objective here. The opportunity is remarkably useful if I simply intended to antagonise the Borginians, but there's nothing to be gained by doing that. Gail tells me you're reliable, and I have little choice but to believe him."

He paused for a brief moment. "I need you to break Edward Kirk. The man refuses to cooperate, and we can only hold the island for so long without knowing how to operate his experimental generator."

"He's in the city?"

Royce laughed, sharp and bitter. "You think I'd let them snatch my prize away? I suppose you don't understand the politics. Rest assured that Hereson and his cronies aren't in a position to bother us." He was still watching her carefully, and for a moment she had the distinct impression he was testing her responses. Exactly what he wanted was difficult to say, and that made her uneasy. "For it is _us_. The state military is not a single entity, and you must take care outside the company of those proven to be trustworthy. But the immediate problems must be addressed in any case."

What have I got myself into, Regina wondered. She immediately blamed Gail for being so difficult and secretive. "So, how do you suggest we handle Kirk?"

Royce shrugged. "I'll leave the methods to you. Perhaps you're more qualified to judge that anyway, but you have some history together, some common ground. Insist that I look upon him as a friend, because we once did work together and the troubling mess that led to his dismissal was not my will. He will be allowed to finish his work, and be reinstated into the service under my command. He knows the alternative."

"Kirk despises me. Why would he listen to anything I have to say?"

"You'll need to be interesting. Men like that cannot tolerate dullness, and I say that as one of those men myself. As for suggestions? Anything that might work is sanctioned. Befriend him, bribe him, threaten him, inspire him with visions of the glory of his completed work and the world we can build together. Seduce him if you must, for I know he's not as immune to women as he acts," Royce said, almost in a frenzy. "The essential thing is that it be done, and done quickly. Anders tells me to torture him, but for all her charms that woman has no skill with people."

"Some of those suggestions are more appealing than others, sir,' she replied, looking back at the clock as it approached one in the morning.

"Isn't that always so? Make no mistake; he must be on our side. I'll have someone take you to him tomorrow morning."

"He's not in the command centre?"

Again he laughed as if she'd said something outrageous. "No, he's in one of my own facilities guarded by those I can trust. Leadership really is a vicious game."

A sharp knock rang out through the room. Royce nodded at her to open it, and she did. A guardsman with a rifle entered and whispered something in the Colonel's ear before taking up a position by the side wall. The look on his face indicated trouble. She was sure she saw a tall, muscular, blonde man in the shadows outside.

"Trouble, sir?"

"Another armoury's been attacked on the south side of the city. Eight soldiers dead. That man you brought in may be more useful than you thought," he said while heading for the door. He looked over his shoulder at her. "Get some sleep, Lieutenant. You'll need to be at your best tomorrow."

The door closed behind him and she collapsed back into the seat. It'd barely been two weeks since they returned from Ibis Island and Rick was in a warzone, Gail had vanished, Kirk was rotting in a dungeon, and she'd just finished getting personal orders from a rather strange colonel, along with a distinct impression that all was not well in Alvernia.

Well, she thought, I can be sure of one thing. I'm not seducing that bastard just to get him out of jail, no matter how nicely Royce asks.


	6. Chapter 6

The night was warm, the air humid, and the sky promised a summer storm before morning. Ibis Island was far enough south that it enjoyed frequent thunderstorms and even the occasional cyclone. None of this was particularly evident or important to Rick and his fellow officers deep under the island's only significant building, the Borginian Third Energy research facility.

Only a few days before the order had finally been given. Rick had watched from the sidelines as Dylan, his friend of only a few hours took a team and four helicopters, dropping into the facility much as he Regina and Gail had done only a few weeks prior. He could see from the heavy weapons and thick armour the men carried that they were far better suited to clearing the facility than his team had been, and his judgment was proven true when they reported in several hours later.

The research facility, once so pristine and sterile, was now filled with rotting corpses and half-starved beasts, all of which were immediately killed on the orders of his commander. The rest of the fleet moved in after that, and Rick took his first step back on the soil of that miserable place surrounded by people he'd never even have been allowed to meet a month before. Some consolation, but he'd hoped his transfer out of espionage meant he could forget all about Ibis Island and its horrors.

It hadn't been easy for him to return there. Walk the same halls he'd once had to scramble through like a rat, barely escaping with his life from the beasts infesting the deserted building. Now they were expected to hold it and even live in it. There was hardly enough room for every man they'd brought, so the once deserted halls were full of soldiers, the corpses removed, and the facility completely secured. The defences had been repaired and more of their own were brought from the ships, though most of the soldiers remained offshore. The island's considerable defensive emplacements were turned against their creators. Their progress was remarkable, and Rick knew how difficult it would be to attack the facility directly.

Still, there were always problems. Every access point to floor B2 had been sealed by automatic security before their arrival and refused to open. Accessing what lay on that floor was the entire point of the mission, and nothing they'd found would open the heavy security barriers that blocked their way. Despite his considerable skill the generator itself was still inaccessible, but he'd found a way to bypass the security on the laboratory section of the floor. That problem was the one he was working on when a heavy storm began above, but there was no room for nature deep in the metallic halls of the facility and he wasn't even aware that the sun had set.

He looked up from the many screens in the control room on floor B3 and sighed, running his hands through his short black hair in frustration. It was as if the security controls weren't even connected to the main system, but how could he explain that and not look like a failure? It was only reasonable to assume the best security for the most important area in the facility would be hard to crack, but it still seemed like something was missing.

The main door opened with a long groan of its motor and he jumped in surprise. The total destruction of the large size cargo elevator during their earlier mission meant the floor was only accessible through a tiny personnel elevator or the underground port. As a result, only those with business or rank were allowed down to B3, and the silence reminded him far too much of his last visit to the place.

"Any progress?" the intruder asked, and he turned around to see Dylan leaning on the electronic display table in the centre of the room.

Despite his frustration he couldn't help but smile. "None at all since opening the labs up. Something's really wrong with this, I'm telling you," he said, turning back in his chair to look at his friend.

Dylan looked puzzled, but stepped up to the screens to take a look. "Doesn't mean much to me. What's wrong with it?" he asked, taking the seat next to him.

"Well, it's just that the system I'm trying to deactivate doesn't seem to exist, and it wasn't even triggered by the time we left the first time. I don't know how it was activated or why it's blocked those doors but no others."

Dylan looked at the screen again and shook his head, face bright green from the screen's reflection. "Okay, so it's unusual. You sure you never saw anything like it anywhere else?"

"Only once. Two of the other agents almost caught up with Kirk and he sealed them into a room using a similar system."

"How?"

"Triggered it from his personal lab on a time delay was my guess."

"And if that's the same thing that's been done here?"

Rick stretched and leaned back. "They bypassed it manually from the inside. Looks like they built in physical overrides so people didn't starve to death," he said, thinking back to the setup in the simulation labs. "Clearly it was designed to keep people out but not in. Kirk probably just wanted to buy enough time to escape, but this is different. Could have been triggered automatically, or by him to protect his work, or even remotely in a worst case scenario."

"That's not good news, speaking as the guy they'll send out for the first attack," Dylan said, a grimace on his otherwise pleasant face.

Rick watched the other man as he turned back to the guardsman stationed in the room and gestured at him to wait outside.

"The Borginian fleet's within a few hours of here. They've stopped, but who knows what's next. There's been some kind of attack on a bunch of military and government buildings under both western and southern command's watch, and the rumour is that Kirk's not cooperating." He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I'm just saying, this is not how you want to start a high risk operation."

"If it was up to me we'd blow this place up and get out of here,' Rick said, his fist curled in frustration.

He turned back to the screen, reconsidered, and shut the whole thing off. "I can't work like this. Maybe I'll go take another look at the schematics later, but I just need a break."

Dylan threw his arm around Rick's shoulder. "Let's get out of here for a while. I don't think we'll see much of each other once the Borginians get sick of waiting around out there," he said, pulling Rick up and opening the door.

They left the cramped and dimly lit control room for the cavernous carrying out room. Two guards were posted, one at the control room entrance and the other at the opposite hall. The main generator and elevator were completely destroyed, as was the main cargo door. A faint smell of burnt rubber and gasoline lingered despite their cleanup attempts, but the backup generators were keeping the facility powered. Unfortunately the facility only had fuel reserves for a few weeks without the main generator to compensate. Several private tents had been erected for the personnel stationed on B3 as they became increasingly desperate for space, but most of the floor was as empty as it had been on his last visit.

"So, alcohol's banned and there's no other entertainment here. What's the plan?"

"Some fresh air. I've been down here half an hour and even that's too much. Never did like all this waiting around."

So Rick indulged him. They left the transport halls for the deceptively named rest station, a reception area for the underground port still covered in dried blood the cleaning teams couldn't fully remove. The elevator was guarded by a heavily armoured woman holding a submachine gun. Dylan nodded in greeting, and only then did Rick notice the TRAT insignia on the navy blue armour. They emerged on the first floor and had to take a moment to adjust to the sheer amount of people in the cramped elevator hall.

Dylan muttered something in his ear, but he couldn't make out what through the noise. They continued through the building, slowed by the equipment and people sprawled throughout the halls, eventually making their way to the second floor balcony. One of the medical staff and a female soldier were already at the far end near a steel barricade but they fell silent as soon as the two men approached. A large bolt of lightning hit the ocean as they watched, illuminating the entire landscape for a brief second.

"This place is amazing, you know?" Dylan said as he leaned on the railing. The balcony was one of the few areas to have been repaired, its quick access to the communication centre judged too valuable to ignore.

Rick turned to him in disbelief. "You're joking. This place is a nightmare."

"I thought you'd see it more than anyone. Back in Alvernia everything's made from stone and brick, and there's poverty everywhere. The technology here is amazing. They actually brought those creatures here from another time? Incredible."

Another flash of lightning lit the building, but the air was completely calm. "Don't give them too much credit; it was completely unintentional." Rick said, shrugging in feigned disinterest.

Dylan continued anyway, completely undeterred. "Still, it makes me think. What else do they have that we don't? All this fighting and we're never any better off."

Rick watched the two on the other end as they looked out at the storm, arms wrapped around each other. "The way you speak, I wonder why you joined the military."

His friend went quiet for a moment, and Rick realised he'd asked a difficult question. "Where I come from is poor. And I mean really, genuinely poor. Nobody had anything growing up and we never expected to get anything. I joined a gang in my teens out of necessity, but the gangs back home are so dangerous they run the place. My family didn't like it, but I told myself I did it to keep them safe. No armed officials keeping order there like in the command cities."

"What changed?" Rick asked, turning to look directly at the other man as he spoke.

"The things we did were terrible," he said, voice barely audible. "The thing is, I was good at it. Violence, extortion, intimidation – anything. After a while I became important enough to get noticed and one of our rivals…" he continued before breaking off and turning away. Rick waited in respect for the man. Many he knew came from unpleasant backgrounds.

"Let's just say I joined up to redeem myself. To use my skills for something better than pointless violence. I can't go home, but I had to know if I could be something other than what I was," he finished as he turned back. Rick could say nothing to that, but he hoped his sympathy was worth something.

"And you? Why did you condemn yourself to the military? A man with your skills could do anything," he asked. The lovers heard their raised voices and left, clearly irritated. The door slammed behind them as Dylan watched expectantly.

"I could've gone into tech research, maybe,' he agreed, looking back at the view. "But I didn't like the way our country was run. Corruption, stagnation, not to mention the constant inequality. Nobody's really content; nobody really knows what to do about it.s I tried protesting and got nowhere. Eventually I wound up in the military like everyone else, but in espionage hoping to do some good. It didn't really work out."

"But you're still here. Can't have been too bad."

"Nowhere else to go," he replied before pausing. "No, it was because of my team. I felt like I belonged to something for once. Couldn't change the world, but I could at least do that. It's never really been enough."

"None of us seem to come from happy backgrounds, you notice that? I was born in shit and you were born dissatisfied. And here we are trying to make something out of it like we can change anything."

They fell silent, both men contemplating their own thoughts and the brief reprieve they'd found. More lightning flashed in the sky, two thick bolts striking the nearby ocean.

Rick watched as Dylan leaned closer into the railing, eyes fixed on the distant shore. He turned to ask what he'd seen, but Dylan's hand shot up and gestured at him to remain silent. He shrugged and took the hint, looking out to the ocean and seeing nothing.

Another flash of lightning, but only a brief one, illuminated the western coast. "There's someone down there," Dylan murmured, looking briefly over at Rick, expression completely changed.

After another half minute the lightning returned and Rick realised for himself their danger. From their position two small ships could be seen on the shore. Without the intensity of the lightning they'd be impossible to see, and even then were concealed by the trees. It seemed to him that there was movement in the same area.

"The radars would've picked up any movement an hour before they got anywhere near here, there's no way," he said, looking over at the soldier sceptically.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. But you were just saying this base's security isn't behaving the way it should, right?"

Rick watched him for a moment, but he knew the man meant every word he said. And why not when Rick, the technical officer, had suggested it only a few minutes before?"

"We need to raise an alarm and contact the commander. This is either nothing at all, or they could have some real surprises waiting for us," Dylan said, his firm voice leaving no room for argument, and without another word he turned and ran for the elevators, speaking into his wrist communicator as he went.

Rick deferred to the expert, catching up with the much faster man as he reached the main staircase to the first floor, nearly knocking over a half-asleep logistics worker as he jumped over the mess scattered on the second floor hall.

"… possible intruders on the western shore, sir, we need to alert the men immediately."

He reached the first floor just behind Dylan, the guards at the main entrance watching with interest.

"Your hand-picked technical officer disagrees, sir," Dylan snapped into the communicator.

Rick looked around the room. It would be possible to take it by surprise, but only if the intruders could avoid alerting the main force. Once taken the facility's security measures made it extremely difficult to seize conventionally. He turned to one of the guards. "We need to find the lieutenant colonel immediately."

The man's face showed curiosity, but he restrained it. "Try the strategy room, sir. I saw two of the other officers headed that way."

He nodded his appreciation and gestured at the TRAT officer to follow him. They passed through the security checkpoint at the western exit and were escorted to the strategy room immediately by two more of Dylan's TRAT soldiers.

The strategy room was built as a military command centre by the Borginian military and was still covered in their insignia. It was well protected by laser grids, security checkpoints, and solid doors, but the true defence came from the many soldiers positioned in the outside halls. Properly positioned, even Rick saw they'd be able to hold against far greater numbers.

They found the lieutenant colonel and three of her men sitting around the centre display table in the strategy room. More men were operating the terminals and other were relaying orders through the internal communication systems.

"Well?" she asked as they approached, looking directly at Rick. "Is Morton's evaluation correct?"

He stopped on the other side of the desk, all four of them watching him with interest.

"It's possible, sir. There are several security systems which cannot be accessed by the main controls. The emergency shutters are controlled from a different system on floor B2 than they are here, and that's our issue. The Borginians are careful, almost excessively so. Each area's security systems are wired separately, but you'd think the emergency security controls would show up somewhere, otherwise they'd be impossible to unlock once activated."

She glanced at a man barely older than thirty with greying hair and an unpleasant smile on her right as he spoke to the men stationed in the outdoor control room. "Are you suggesting a remote link or sabotage?"

He shrugged. "Either or both. The Borginians are just better at this than we are. Their technology is more advanced and they're more cautious. I think I can figure out what they're doing, but right now we've got to put the base on alert."

"I appreciate the honesty. It's rare for anyone to admit our nation's failings so openly. I'll trust your evaluation and send for additional technical experts." She turned back to the prematurely grey man on her right. "I believe we have at least two Borginian deserters who may be useful, is that correct, Harper?

"Two with appropriate experience, yes,' Harper replied, looking up at Rick but ignoring Dylan completely.

"Send for them. Wait, hold that until we know who else we need to replace, if there is indeed a battle."

Dylan broke in, having waited as long as he was able. "This can wait. We need to put the base on a full alert _now_; if they were at the shore then they could easily have reached the western walls by now."

"It's already been done," she replied, standing and looking at the map of the facility with the positions of the security forces marked on it in real time. "I've ordered the men to take positions with the utmost silence. Snipers are taking positions, mounted machine guns have been manned, and the security control rooms are all staffed. Reinforcements are deploying from the fleet as we speak."

"That's not enough. Half this place is still under repair, have you forgotten that massive hole in the heliport wall? Or the eastern part of the facility, judged by your own men as near indefensible?" Dylan asked, becoming increasing frantic. Harper watched with interest, eyes now fixed on the TRAT officer.

"I need no reminders from you, Lieutenant," she replied, cold as ever. "Send two TRAT squads east, one to the heliport, the other to the second entrance. Take your own men and hold the entrance hall, deploy the rest as you see him other than seventh squad. Harper, send a message to the communication area. Borginian scouts spotted on island, all facility other than experimental generator accessible, problem likely to be resolved shortly. Full attack likely within the next few days. Inform the colonel immediately."

They both saluted, Dylan sharing a meaningful glance with Rick before he slammed the door behind him.

"Levin, take command on floor B2, hold all the entrances. This may be a ploy to access the generator," Anders ordered, the middle-aged man to her left rising to his feet and leaving with a nod to one of the guardsmen at the door.

She took her seat again and watched the moving dots on the map. He remained still, never sure how to act around Anders. She seemed to dislike the formality required when speaking among officers, but wasn't close to any of her subordinates either. He knew Harper followed her like a shadow, but they didn't seem particularly close. So they sat there in silence for a moment, and he watched as over twenty red dots converged on the heliport, ten of them the crimson assigned to TRAT soldiers. As far as he could tell each entrance was covered adequately. It still felt unsafe, but the sterile, lifeless halls of the facility had felt so from the moment he first saw them.

She looked up as if she'd forgotten he was there. "You'd best stay here, I think. Take the console in the corner and monitor the security systems on this floor. Inform me of any –"she began before cutting off. The lights flickered briefly and the entire facility shook, knocking Rick off his feet and smashing his jaw into the hard metal table. He heard the unmistakable sounds of an explosion on the east side of the facility and his mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. The facility's automatic alarm system activated and the mounted screen above switched to a view of the heliport. Two guards armed with automatic rifles burst into the room, but Anders seemed undisturbed and sent them off.

He rose to his feet with some difficulty, but remained there only for a moment before collapsing into a seat. The image on the screen showed the hastily repaired heliport wall had been blown apart. Thick columns of smoke rose from the rubble and there was fire everywhere. Many of the soldiers stationed there weren't moving, and he saw one man leaning against a wall holding the upper part of his leg, the rest having been blown clean off. Another corpse was missing most of its lower body, the heliport markings covered in blood and gore. The remaining men were regrouping by a half ruined barricade near the hangar when four armoured troops poured through the wall and shot all but those behind the sandbags. He checked the centre display and saw the TRAT squad approaching from the north, but they would have to funnel through a tight passage to reinforce the men already there.

"Send twelfth squad to reinforce the men at the hangar. Seal all non-essential doors, particularly those on the far side of this floor," Anders ordered, the communications officers sending each command through as she spoke. A large group of dots in the administration offices began moving towards the entrance hall. The crimson markers poured into the heliport and Rick looked back at the screen. Five heavily armoured men took positions behind the rubble of the concrete wall and began exchanging shots with the intruders.

She turned back to Rick, eyes on the screen behind him. "Seal the administration level, we don't have the men to hold it."

He hesitated, hands on the keyboard and eyes on her. "That'll completely isolate the squad by the backup generator," he objected. One of the female communications officers looked alarmed by his tone, but he didn't care about that.

"You'll do as ordered. If the offices fall we'll be fighting in the halls," she snapped, turning back to receive another update. Her cold tone and colder eyes left no room for argument.

Despite his better judgment he complied, turning back to the console and activating the same defensive protocol he was struggling with below. His display showed thick anti-intruder plates sliding down to cover the doors. If she was wrong he'd just condemned twelve people to death.

For a time they worked methodically, the officers relaying information to the lieutenant colonel and her sending orders back to the field officers. The TRAT reinforcements held at the heliport for a time before being pushed back into the hangar, but suffered relatively few losses.

He heard the sounds of gunfire faintly in the distance. Everyone in the room turned in alarm, but it fell off for a moment. The fighting returned and at the sound of one of their mounted machine guns firing Rick felt the adrenaline hit his veins. Could they really be at the main gate?

But they _were _at the main gate. Before long the sounds of rifles exchanging fire could be heard even from the strategy room, and then the doors burst open. One of Dylan's soldiers entered, her navy vest stained with blood. At first he assumed it was an enemy's, but he saw the stain spreading and the trouble she was having her left arm, rifle hanging limply at her side.

"Corporal Lowry reporting, sir. The main gate is under attack; Lieutenant Morton requests reinforcements and sniper cover," she said, gasping for a moment while trying not to lean on the wall for support.

"Noted. Get yourself to the medical rooms." She turned back to the communications staff. "Contact Harper, he's to lead fifth squad to the main entrance and reinforce the outer defences."

The blonde woman on the intercom frowned and looked at the indicator lights on its control panel. "Sir, no response from Major Harper."

"Try again," she replied, looking back to the real time map of the facility. The intruders at the heliport had been pushed back out of the hangar, but more were gaining ground at the main entrance. Rick could hear two mounted machine guns firing in bursts outside.

"Still no response," she replied, the slightest hint of fear in her young voice.

He inhaled sharply and ran over to the lieutenant colonel, pushing past the armed guard in his haste.

"I think this is a feint, sir. Our men are concentrated in the north-east section of the ground floor, but why would so few men attack us there? We've got the numbers and the cover,' he said, rushing to get the point across.

"Perhaps you were worth bringing. It had occurred to me," Anders replied, brushing a stray lock of blonde hair out of her eyes in irritation. "If Harper hasn't replied by now he's likely dead."

She looked around at the remaining staff. "I can't reassign any more squads while most of our force is still offshore. Not if we're to keep the entire facility covered."

He saw his chance. "I've been doing this kind of work for years. I'll find your man and secure the second floor, sir."

For a moment she was silent. Were people so young usually promoted so quickly, he wondered? She was clearly capable, but many of Royce's staff didn't meet the standard image for their positions.

"Very well. You'll pass through the entrance hall; the other elevator is still broken. Take two of Morton's men. Find Major Harper, kill any Borginian troops you find, but don't die. The colonel didn't go through the trouble of recruiting you just so you could go and get killed on your first assignment."

That was everything he wanted to hear. When he arrived in the entrance hall he was greeted by the sight of two TRAT soldiers on each side of the main door covering a mounted machine gun firing into the night. A corpse lay in the corner, the dead man's blood leaving a trail from the door to his resting place. At his request one of the men summoned Dylan, who was covered in sweat and breathing heavily. More soldiers waited on the balcony above, but the exterior defence was holding, he was told.

"Rick, what are you doing out here? Get behind that barricade," he said as he ducked past the main doors.

"Looks like this attack's just a feint," he shouted, trying to be heard past the shooting. "We've lost contact with the second floor, and I need soldiers to hold it."

He nodded, not wasting any time. "I'll take two men and come with you; they're pulling back out the front," Dylan said, pointing back out the main doors before ordering two of his soldiers to join them. Rick took one of the many rifles behind the barricade and went up the stairs with them.

He had intended to do things quietly, but there was chance of that when his allies were carrying shotguns and covered in body armour. They smashed through to the second floor and found its main hall completely deserted. The two men posted there had disappeared entirely. Dylan and his troops cleared both the ruined admin office and the lounge within moments, reporting nobody at all and no signs of a struggle. When they returned to the main hall one of the men from the indoor balcony burst through the door looking frantic.

"Lieutenant Morton, sir, two more casualties. We've had to abandon the centre mounted gun, their sniper killed the gunner."

Dylan paused and looked to Rick. "I have to go back, can you handle this?"

He smiled at that. "What do you mean? Of course," he said before looking back at the two masked soldiers. "All clear, let's check the balcony."

They found the outdoor balcony silent and dimly lit, slowly leaving the safety of the facility and spreading out behind the vents. And then he saw the corpse sprawled against the wall. The man had been shot through the head, the concrete wall behind him smeared with gore. Another lay dead at the other end of the balcony in a pool of his own blood, and a third was sprawled under one of the mounted lights, more blood soaked into the concrete under him.

Realising instantly what must have happened he fell to the floor and rolled behind one of the barricades, yelling at the others to do the same. The man behind the vents dove around the side instantly, but the other was exposed on the balcony. He ran for cover but they heard a muffled scream as a bullet tore through his side. He watched, completely helpless, as the man collapsed to the floor shaking uncontrollably.

He made eye contact with the other man, hoping he'd know what to do. Rick was only a few short steps from the communication room. The soldier thrust his rifle out through the gap in the vents and fired, spraying the forest with bullets and, with any luck, drawing the sniper's attention. He ran faster than he ever had in his life, throwing the metal door open and jumping inside.

But the jump slammed him into someone, both of them falling to the floor with a groan of pain. The rifle fell behind him, but Rick looked up first and saw Harper leaning against the communication console. "Kill her before she gets up, she's one of them,' the man gasped. He tried to rise but a sharp pain in Rick's stomach threw him back to the floor winded and close to vomiting. The intruder was a woman in a speckled tan and dark green uniform, but that was all he saw before she kicked him down and reached for a pistol laying near the broken elevator.

She was quite attractive, he thought. Shoulder length black hair, striking face, and a gun aimed at his chest. Combat really wasn't his speciality, but he'd done all he could. The world seemed to fade before him as he realised there was nothing he could do to save himself. She pulled the trigger, but Harper dove forward despite his injuries and threw her aim off. The bullet hit a screen and showered Rick with glass, but he seized the opportunity and kicked her back into the wall. She dropped the gun, reached in the dark for something on the console beside her and grabbed a small black object with her other hand, clearly a detonator, and pulled a trigger on its side with a faint smirk.

The first thing he felt was the heat, but within a second everything and everyone in the room was violently thrown back by as the entire building shook. The noise was so terribly loud he covered his ears from the pain but even that did nothing, and the entire world became a blur. Bits of rubble from the ceiling collapsed onto them, but the roof didn't cave in despite that. Outside he could see the night sky set alight by the explosion for the briefest second before the flare faded.

It soon ended, the screens in the room dim and the lights operating on emergency power systems. Only one remained lit, and it displayed a message that made his stomach drop. 'Antenna complex destroyed'. Harper lay unmoving under the console, blood leaking from his mouth and smeared on the floor underneath him. The intruder was getting to her feet, but he rose first, seizing the fallen pistol and falling back on the desk with it aimed at her unarmoured chest. She rose anyway, but slowly and predictably.

His finger was on the trigger, and he knew what she'd done would set them back even more than he could guess. How many more places had been targeted? They'd underestimated their enemy severely and paid the price for it a dozen times over. He knew he should shoot her. That he'd be expected to do so. But he hesitated as he always had when called upon to kill.

"Do it," spat Harper from the floor, his grey eyes fixed on Rick.

He hesitated still, and the gun lowered a slight fraction. She leapt forward at incredible speed, clearly sensing weakness, and that made it much easier. He shot the saboteur through the upper leg, sending her back to the floor next to Harper. He held it back up to finish her and failed to do so as he knew was inevitable, instead telling himself she'd be a valuable prisoner. It was, of course, justified by necessity, the need for them to have inside information into the enemy and so on. He knew better, but it would have to do.

The rest of the skirmish didn't last long, ending some time before the sun rose. The assault on the main gates ended with the deaths of most of the attackers and several defenders. Dylan was commended for his strategies and his bravery, leading the counterattack in person more than once. The contents of the hangar were set ablaze while Rick languished in the communications room, the attackers retreating after that success. Many were munitions and had caused a complete evacuation of that sector. Most of the troops initially stationed in that area had been killed, and many more were crippled by the initial explosion and those that followed in the hangar.

The communications complex had been destroyed, and what wasn't destroyed was left completely useless. Much of the second floor was exposed to the open air and heavily burnt; the bomb had set the main hall alight and the fire had spread through the entire level. The other TRAT soldier sent with Rick was found in twelve different places, completely dismembered in the explosion. Major Harper's injuries were mostly superficial, but some were more troubling and he'd been immediately sent to the medical units once the first recovery team reached them.

Rick was more or less unharmed, and he found himself in the main entrance hall with the lieutenant colonel several hours after the battle's end. His prisoner had been sent under heavy guard to floor B3. That and his rescue of Harper had made up for his failure to save the communications equipment to some extent, or so he'd interpreted her response.

"Three sabotage attempts, two successful. Seventeen dead, ten injured. Twenty-nine confirmed kills, ten prisoners," Anders said to Rick and two other officers before running a hand over her tired face.

"You were unprepared," said a middle-aged woman who'd arrived that morning from the fleet.

"No," Anders snapped. "We cannot hold this island indefinitely. This is their territory, their technology. It's a research facility not designed to withstand a siege, and we're not here to hold against one. Deploy the reinforcements as per the original plan, Major. Move the heavy weapons squads into the building, and have the captured Borginian weapons emplacements prepared for activation." She turned and moved away, Rick and the other man following with an unsure glance at each other.

"Without access to the generator or the cooperation of our prisoner, this is going to become problematic. See if the doors can be bypassed, regardless of the methods used," she said to the man beside Rick. "Continue your attempts to break the security system, but collate any information you can on Third Energy. It may be all we can get if things continue to deteriorate," she ordered.

"Uh, Lieutenant Colonel?" the younger man asked, a terribly nervous expression on his face. "Ellison is asking for orders regarding the prisoners. Most are soldiers, but three are espionage agents captured during sabotage attempts."

"The agents could be useful," she said, a thoughtful expression overtaking her usual disinterest. "Lieutenant, I'll have you interrogate the one you captured. She was found with a disc stolen from the databases. Curious, don't you think?"

"And the soldiers?"

She looked back at him. "Execute them. They died in the battle, of course."

He watched, dumbfounded by the callousness of that statement. Seven people's lives judged and extinguished in half a second of thought. She left him to it and he found Dylan sitting outside by the bodies of six of his men.

"All my life I've been watching friends die, and for what?" the TRAT officer murmured, eyes fixed on the body bags. The courtyard was covered in rubble, broken glass, and blood stains, the sky a warm blue as the storm faded into the distance.

"I wish I knew. They lost more than we did, but it looks like they got what they wanted anyway."

Dylan snorted in derision. "Yeah, and someone like me on their side is sitting back and asking the same question." He stood up and threw his rifle over his shoulder. "We survived the first wave, but that's nothing compared to what's coming if we're here much longer. They want that generator? Do absolutely anything you can to make it happen before it comes to that."

He stood back as his friend left. Armed guards patrolled the facility as reinforcements from the fleet poured in, and black smoke still rose from the ruined heliport and the remains of the second floor. I should never have come here, he thought. Gail lived for situations like this, and Regina never let anything bother her. Yet he, the most peaceful of the lot, was sent instead. He'd resolved to do anything he could to limit the suffering people like him caused wherever they went. A fine ideal, but the reality had been quite different. It hadn't ever been much, but it was all he could offer. Or perhaps it was all just a delusion to help him sleep easier.


	7. Chapter 7

A dreadful grind of the door's ancient hinges was the first thing he heard as the uniformed men outside brought in the usual evening meal. One stood in the entrance, a rifle aimed at the prisoner's chest, as the other deposited the plate on a small wooden table leaning against the stone wall of the cell.

"Steak again, how nice," the prisoner said, looking up at the skeletal man before him. "One would almost think I'm being better fed than you." His remarks failed to elicit even the slightest response from the men, and he leaned back against the wall with a dissatisfied sigh. "Really, you don't think the rifle is a bit excessive?"

"Any messages?" asked the man who'd brought in his meal.

"None that you'd deliver. You may leave, soldier," he replied, pulling the table towards his position on the wafer-thin mattress he'd been generously given.

Ordering men to do things they were going to do anyway was pointless, of course, but it had a tendency to make them absolutely furious when you were at their mercy. For a man in Edward Kirk's position there were so few pleasures available that one had to take even the slightest opportunity presented, because after it would only come another twelve hours of staring at a stone wall. In this case it had its intended effect; the soldier scowled at him, spun around, and left as if he were above responding to such a person.

It was an easy mistake to make, Kirk knew. He was absolutely filthy. Once blonde hair completely dishevelled, clothes covered in dust and grime, bandages around his midsection… hardly an intimidating visage.

The steak was quite pleasant, surprisingly enough. Medium-rare as he preferred it, a fine cut with almost no fat, and accompanied by a side of vegetables fried in some sauce he couldn't name. There was a chance that any number of people had spat on it before it arrived, but there was no use worrying about that. It wasn't as if they had a personal grudge against him, and he knew several of the staff (other than, of course, the cell guards) seemed to favour him.

Besides, he considered, nobody feeds good steak to a man condemned to death or life in prison. That'd be terribly wasteful, and Alvernia never had the food to spare for such extravagance unless it was needed for some manipulation or other. And it was needed for exactly that purpose. Since his last meeting with his captor, the frustratingly cryptic Anton Royce, he'd been left in his cell. None of the expected tortures had occurred; he was simply asked with each meal whether he had any messages to send and left to his devices in the small stone room they'd found for him otherwise.

He finished the last piece of the steak, savouring every moment of it in full knowledge it may be the last time he ever tasted something so exquisite, and put the empty plate back on the table. They'd even given him a steak knife, betraying either idiocy or confidence in their security. Perhaps the rifle wasn't so excessive after all.

His cell was cold, his bedding insufficient, and the only furniture the small table, a terribly uncomfortable little chair, and a screen built into the wall. The screen was not under his control, but it would light up once or twice a day to show some piece of news on the state channel that they wanted him to know about.

Left with little to do but think he resigned himself to the next twelve hours of near unbearable dullness. Some time passed, how much was entirely impossible to guess, but he amused himself by scratching out his thoughts on the wall with the steak knife. He'd considered many times accepting the offer, something that even seemed quite generous in his darkest moments. Yet every time that skeletal creature returned he couldn't stomach the thought of bowing and scraping to the scum. No, let it be imprisonment and satisfaction. He was not afraid to suffer, not if the alternative was humiliation and bondage.

The thought of Royce's disdainful sneer deterred him just as much as his pride. The mocking look in his pale eyes when he slammed the door behind him, the constant veiled insults scattered through his speech, and especially his refusal to be straightforward even when asking for Kirk's help.

Yet he had to admit, there had been less suffering than he'd anticipated. Alvernian military prisons had a certain reputation for unpleasantness, though it was difficult to imagine a military prison being anything other than unpleasant. But that was all foolishness. He threw his arms out into the cramped and stagnant air with a short and bitter laugh. The torture had begun the moment he'd arrived. What need was there for the rack and the knife for a man like him? Throw them both away, they were entirely unnecessary.

Soon it had to end, of course. They wanted him to pledge his allegiance to them, and fortunately for him everyone else with any real knowledge of his work (other than Royce himself and a few Borginian officials) had died a miserable death on Ibis Island. He'd even played a small part in that himself. Despicable, he knew, but it really had seemed necessary at the time. Murder (was it murder?) hadn't quite caused the emotional ruination it was famed for. He shrugged to himself. Plenty of time left for that to change.

His thoughts were interrupted as the room filled with blue light and the sound of a woman's voice. Another state address they'd deemed appropriate for his eyes, most likely. They were usually full of lies that even someone as starved of information as he was could see through, but even those were interesting enough.

" … And local prices of grain are expected to rise sharply due to the recent attacks on western storehouses. Trade officials insist the shortage will soon be remedied by increased foreign imports and that the newly proposed security measures will restore confidence to local business within the month," an attractive but completely unmemorable blonde newscaster said in that voice reserved solely for those in her profession.

"We now bring you to an official statement on the matter from the western command centre. Major General James Hereson will address the people first." The image changed, showing a wide shot of an impeccably decorated hall. An older man, perhaps approaching sixty stood at the podium, his impeccable navy blue uniform decorated with many awards and his face showing that stern yet fair expression men of his type loved so much. Other officers stood behind, but the camera focused solely on the leader. The crowd clapped politely as he greeted them, a group of perhaps two hundred under the careful watch of armed officials.

Kirk leaned back on the bed in some surprise. It was, at least to his knowledge, unusual for someone of Hereson's rank to directly speak to the public. The man had certainly never been willing to speak to him. The general filled the first few minutes with the usual pleasantries. Statements glorifying the strength of the nation and the iron will of the people and their leaders, all greeted with the same polite applause.

" … And that is why, dear citizens, such blatant hostility on the part of our enemies cannot be tolerated. They have one goal: our total destruction, and only so for the profit of themselves and their masters. There is no ideology, no grand idea – these men are the vilest sort of criminals," Hereson continued, his firm voice ringing out across the auditorium.

"They have struck, not at the government, not at the military, not at those who can fight back, but at _you_. Your food supplies, your homes, your safety. The freedom for your children to walk the streets of our city without being attacked by thugs, the freedom for you to meet a fellow citizen and not have to question their loyalties."

"And we have had enough. Western command has been authorised to use any means necessary to hunt down and destroy the cowards, and we intend to do so. As we speak our men move on a hideout in the south-western industrial district to confront the villains responsible for the theft of your grain and the destruction of your homes." He paused for a moment, taking a glass of water from an aide.

"For what is the ultimate goal if not peace and stability? They threaten the foundation of our society and must pay the appropriate price for it, must they not? If this challenge is left unanswered, if they are free to steal and kill as they please, then what we have will not be worth saving." He paused again, to a more spirited applause from most of the crowd, though Kirk noted with interest some sections that remained silent.

"Finance Minister Vorman," he turned, gesturing in respect to a tall, wiry man in a well-fitted black suit, "will soon make an address to discuss the government's response to the food shortages, but first, please welcome Colonel Anton Royce; he will explain to you the security measures taking effect as of tonight. Good day to you," Hereson finished, smiling in a reassuring fashion to the crowd before leaving with his entourage close behind.

Kirk leaned in closer at the mention of Royce's name. Could the bastard be sending him a message? If so, then what was it?

Royce rose to his feet, towering over the aide on his right, and stepped up to the podium. The crowd cheered with more enthusiasm than they'd shown for the general and he hadn't even said a word.

"It is a sad day, is it not, when our right to exist, our values as a people are so violently challenged? Attacks by armed insurgents have been growing ever more frequent since their emergence two years ago, and more and more of our people lose their lives to them with each month. Indeed, fourteen soldiers lost their lives defending our city last night. But what of the workers in those warehouses as they burned? What of the office workers in those armouries? The receptionist brutally executed at her desk, the father of two burned to death as he worked to feed the city?" Royce began, his tone filled with outrage and indignation. The crowd responded in kind, jeering at the villains and clapping at the man's outspokenness. His low voice, deep and commanding with just enough empathy, was everything they wanted.

"Are we so cruel as to commit atrocities such as this, do you think? Are human beings so loathsome as to enjoy this work, to do it for something as small as a day's pay?" he asked them, losing the grandiose tone and asking as if he were genuinely curious. The crowd fell silent, all awaiting his next words. Even Kirk found his unconventional approach difficult to look away from.

"I would not like to think so. And here I must respectfully disagree with the distinguished major general. There _is_ an ideology at work here; there is a plan beyond callous opportunism."

"Prove it," shouted a dishevelled man near the front of the crowd. "I lost my house and my son to those fiends, and you want us to sympathise with them?" The guards moved to silence him but Royce stopped them.

"Sympathise? That is for you to decide. But your loss will not go unanswered, and your countrymen will not fail to aid you in your time of need," the colonel replied to more applause.

"I think it is time you understood our enemy more clearly, good people. We do not face a single entity, but several distinct groups using our weakness to strike independently. Two consist of local rebels, one vying for material wealth and control, the other revolutionaries fighting for social change, but I will not speak of them today."

"It has been known for some time that the most dangerous group, one with influence in Merestan and the entire western sector as well as southern command and Polostin by the mountains, has been equipped and financed by an outside entity. Today I will reveal to you the source of this funding, and the entity behind these tragedies."

Well, that'll be sure to make some lives difficult, Kirk thought as he watched. Far more entertaining viewing than rest of the addresses he'd seen, especially when he looked at the nervous expressions on the men behind Royce. Someone was sure to burn for revealing what he suspected was coming.

"Captured enemy operatives have revealed that Kosra's militia, as it is known, is both funded and actively supported by elements of the Borginian government. We now have decisive proof of their attempts to destabilise our nation and their treachery," Royce cried as the crowd erupted. Journalists rushed about, citizens shouted across the room, guards attempted in vain to control them, and many of the officials behind the colonel made a quick exit.

Minister Vorman stood up, hesitated, and then sat back down, but Royce's self-satisfied expression vanished when one of the men in the back stepped forward and whispered something in his ear.

They let a man without a uniform carry a rifle in there? His eyes narrowed as he looked more closely. Short blond hair, cold expression… could it be? The quality was so poor he couldn't say, but then he saw the bandages wrapped around his upper arm. The build and the hair could be coincidental, but this? It had to be the same man who'd hunted him down on Ibis Island. Certainly something worth knowing, he considered as he stood up and stretched, hands nearly touching the ceiling.

The broadcast shut off as abruptly as it had begun; he'd seen everything they'd wanted him to see. But what was the message? He thought of several likely possibilities, but was interrupted by a sharp knock on the rusty door.

"Stand against the back wall," a muffled voice ordered, and he did as commanded. The door groaned as it opened, scraping against the stone floor and filling the air with the sound of creaking hinges.

The intensity of the light outside the cell nearly blinded him, but as he shielded his eyes it became apparent that he had three visitors. The unnaturally thin, grim looking guard holding the key and a pistol, a short, lean man in an officers' uniform of some description, and… but that couldn't be right.

"This is the famous Edward Kirk? Well, famous might not be the right word. We'll leave you to it, but don't take too long," the short man said, his tone light and humorous.

"You talk too much, Mirzin. Make sure we're not disturbed," a dry female voice said, removing any of his doubts. Royce certainly had a sense of humour, having her of all people sent to speak to him. His eyes were well and truly adjusted by then, and he saw her for the first time in… well, he wasn't quite sure. She was tall, quite thin yet not even close to looking fragile, still with the same vivid red hair if a little longer.

The door slammed shut and he remained standing at the far wall, arms crossed and expression blank.

Regina leaned on the wall by the door and stared at him for some time, completely silent.

"What was it you told me?" she asked, held tilted to one side. "You cared about nothing except your experiment?"

He watched, moved to one side and then back. It was a display of discomfort, he knew. "Indeed I did, agent. You disapproved, as I remember it, but we didn't discuss the matter at length. Are you here to do so now?" he asked, allowing a slight smirk to show on his face. It was not natural, but few of his expressions were.

"No," she replied, pulling the wooden seat over with her boot. His eyes glanced over to the steak knife, just within his reach. "You're free to try," she said, quiet and not in the least bit threatened. "But if you're still looking to kill me then I don't think you understand the situation."

"I understand you're here because nothing else they've tried has convinced me to capitulate. I understand the Third Energy is suddenly of great importance, and that every other person who knew of it is rotting in the ground."

She grinned at him as if he'd said something amusing. "When they brought me here I wondered why you'd refuse. I mean, the offer's all you said you wanted, right? But it's simpler than that: you're just holding out for a better deal. Same old amoral piece of shit you always were, right Kirk? And here I was hoping I had you all wrong."

His hand curled into a fist, but he knew that was futile so kicked the flimsy table, snapping one of its legs in half.

"This is why I could never stand people like you," he muttered, running a hand over his filthy face. "So sanctimonious, so hypocritical. I could forgive you if it were merely cynicism, just some act to get what you want however you could, but you're completely genuine, aren't you?" Kirk said, sitting back on the bed as he found himself too fatigued to continue standing.

"Just what are you talking about?" Regina replied, leaning forward to look at him directly. The sarcasm had vanished.

"_'__Don't you see, your grand invention is just another weapon to be misused?'_" he quoted, making full eye contact for the first time. "Only someone in your position could say that in all seriousness and be where you are now."

She fell silent, and he was sure he'd hit a nerve. He shrugged as if it didn't matter to him. "Perhaps the good Colonel doesn't intend to misuse it, what do you think?" His eyes shifted to her uniform. "I was under the impression that lieutenants weren't sent on three man espionage missions. A recent promotion, I assume. It's a very flattering colour, compliments your hair nicely."

"Are you trying to lecture me on ethics? You, of all people?" she said, voice seething with irritation. He found his gaze drawn to her, watching and judging each movement she made.

He laughed. "Why not me? I admit, I did say the lives of every person on that island were entirely inconsequential if only my work could be completed. That is only a shadow of what your masters say to themselves before sending you out to do their killing, and at least it's honest."

Now it was her turn to curl her fist in anger, but he didn't let that deter him. It'd been too long and he was too spiteful to stop there.

"After all," he continued, "you are a professional murderer, are you not? You kill for the state's benefit, and have been so well trained that you can chastise me for creating a weapon one day and then return on another and tell me what I do is acceptable, just not for your enemies? As I said, take that position if you must, but do not pretend to have some ethical high ground. We both abandoned any claim to _that_ a long time ago."

"What do you know that you aren't telling me?" she asked, leaning forward and barely restraining her anger. That she hadn't struck him yet was a source of amazement, but he continued undeterred.

"I understand the allure, you must know. You're closer to the source; perhaps you can use that power for the good of the people. There must be a plan, of course. Surely he'll reveal the details in good time, and until then you can assume the best. Just like on Ibis Island when you were there to rescue me from those _awful_ Borginians."

He stood up again, invigorated by the chance he'd been given. "I suppose you were told why they need my help?" He stopped and laughed again. "No, you weren't told anything. You don't need a reason, because you'll make your own up so you can come in here and moralise to me as if you were any better."

But she raised her hand and he stopped. For the first time he saw the tired expression, the uncertainty. "You're right about one thing. I don't know what they want your research for. I don't even know who 'they' are, or what their plan is - ,"she began, finally showing some emotion before he cut her off.

"And you must have seen the broadcast? Not a very united military, but it looks like your man's the people's favourite. I've known our friend Anton for longer than you have, be sure of that. Whatever he's told you is what he thinks you want to hear. Just what was that show about, anyway? I can't figure it out. Can you?"

Again, Regina remained silent.

"I thought not. But I think you know someone who does know."

"You really are a piece of work, Kirk," she muttered, sitting back down, the anger evaporating before his eyes. "I was here to convince you to join us, and I've just sat here and let you do all the talking."

He opened his mouth again but was cut off. She glanced at the door and leaned in towards him.

"Regardless of your suspicions, the only way you're getting out of here is to accept Royce's offer. He's subtle, and it doesn't look like you've suffered physically despite his impatience." She glanced at his bandages, the remains of the treatment following his last questioning.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Kirk replied, pacing the room in excitement. "He showed me one thing today, and that's disunity. Before long the Borginian conflict will be too much and the rest of them will come for me. Royce is a colonel; his rival's a major general. I can wait."

"You're an arrogant bastard, Kirk. Always so sure you've outsmarted everyone else. This isn't a military prison, this is one of Royce's private facilities in the middle of nowhere. Only his men know about it, and I mean _his _men. Unlike you, he seems to inspire loyalty in his people."

"I see you read those journals too. You'd think researchers of all people might have understood, but of course not," he said, disguising his sudden fear. His plan had been to wait it out until someone else decided he was too valuable to leave in the hands of someone who couldn't get a response. Clearly that had been anticipated.

"If we're to proceed I must know why you are here. What motivates you to convince me to develop the Third Energy for this government if it is indeed just a weapon to be misused?"

They watched each other, shadows cast on the wall by the flickering light. "I'd like to claim there was some grand plan, but there isn't. I'm here because I was asked to be here by a superior officer. What other option is there?"

"But is that how you want to live? Forever following orders; never understanding them? What if there was another way? You are not stupid, you see what he's doing could lead you to the execution ground. And for what?" He stretched his hands out, inviting her to answer.

This was it for him. He'd seen the slightest hint of uncertainty, of dissatisfaction, and that was his only chance. Why she'd allowed him to continue so long was beyond his understanding, but it was fuelled by the same sentiment he'd seen on Ibis Island, surely.

He leaned in closer, as if wary of being heard by the guards outside. "My entire life I have been manipulated and used by men such as these," he said, allowing some genuine emotion to enter his voice even if it was little more than bitterness. "They have taken everything from me again, and again, and I have grown tired of it."

"I know you agree with me. That I've been allowed to speak has proven that. What if we could find out? What if we could take back what they've stolen for themselves?"

She rose and stared at him, at the filthy, deranged prisoner before her, with a thoughtful if cautious expression replacing the guarded, blank, soldier's face. "If you genuinely believe that, you'll agree to work with Royce. He's taken Ibis Island from the Borginians already; all they need is you to work on the generator. You won't get another opportunity."

Kirk's eyes widened in shock, surprised at the boldness of the move. "That does change things. They won't let him keep it for long, not if he doesn't have the support of more men than those he commands already." He rose to his feet, finally seeing the opportunity he needed.

Regina took a step closer and he saw the shotgun strapped to her back for the first time. She began to speak, but stopped inexplicably. He watched and saw she was listening intently for something outside the cell.

And then he heard it too. Faintly in the distance something quite out of the ordinary was happening.

She pulled back from the door, expression and voice totally changed. "We need to go. Now."

"Are you breaking me out of prison? I'm flattered, really."

He felt a firm hand on his arm, and then she pulled him close against her on the wall next to the door Slightly uncomfortable, really, but he found it difficult to protest. And then he realised why, as the commotion outside came within his hearing range. Gunfire in the halls of Royce's private prison was not something he'd expected to hear, but there it was.

The door opened with its usual grind and Regina slammed the intruder to the wall, the shotgun pressed into his stomach.

"Hold it, it's me," he wheezed, clearly in some pain from her rough treatment.

"Mirzin? The fuck's going on out there, who's attacking?" she asked, taking the gun off her ally.

The short man laughed, but it was more deranged than humorous. "We're being raided by the military. The guards are holding them up in the foundry, but you need to go now before they get down here. It won't be long." Edward looked at him more carefully and saw a dark stain spreading down his uniform from the shoulder.

Mirzin pulled away from the door, holding onto it for support. "Take the corridor down, and then go left until you reach the ladder. This place used to be a sewer; you'll find your way out."

She ran after him. "Wait. Come with us. You don't need to die here," she shouted behind him, the sounds of the gunfight even more distinct outside of the cell.

"I have to clean up first or it's all over. Get out of here as fast as you can; I'll try and catch up. If I don't make it, well, do what you like, what's it really matter?" he said, running back toward the fight.

He stared at Regina as she watched the other man leave, entire body tense. As he turned the corner she looked back at him, exhaling in frustration. "Isn't this familiar? Are you coming, or do you want to try your luck with the soldiers?"

It was enlightening, really. She didn't have the time to take him by force and she knew it. More than that, she seemed to be waiting for him to make a free decision. Another burst of gunfire carried down the corridor and he decided. She was his best chance, both for escape and for what he really wanted. He nodded, and they both turned and ran. She checked each corner and crevice in the wall, shotgun in her hands, and he waited behind following every order. Nothing to be gained by pretending he was a soldier.

It didn't take long to reach the ladder. The tunnels were cramped, dark, and often unlit. A man waited there, submachine gun in hand. He watched as they approached, eyes widening when he saw Kirk. Ah, he thought, the ridiculous thin guard again. Shame he wasn't down the other end to get shot.

"Explain yourself immediately," he demanded, attempting to raise the gun but hesitating when he saw the shotgun aimed at his chest.

"We're being attacked from above, can't you tell?" she snapped, barely concealing her anger.

"By who? And why are you –?" he tried to continue before being cut off.

"Shut up and move or we're all dead. Where does this ladder lead?"

"Leads to a manhole in an alley just outside the old ironworks. We caved in all the other exits," he replied, stammering for a brief moment before regaining his composure.

She sent the guard down first; then ordered Kirk to follow. The ladder was old, built from rusty iron handles bolted to the stone walls of the passage. He reached the halfway point when the entire sewer began shaking. Dust fell from the ceiling and he had a terrible feeling the entire place would collapse in on them, but it was not so. The shaking ceased and he reached the bottom, nearly falling until the soldier steadied him. That was almost humiliating, but he let it go as Regina jumped down the last few rungs.

"Well, what a lovely place," she muttered as they continued on. As the man had said above, only one of the three passages was accessible, and it was barely standing. A dim bulb hanging from the ceiling was the only source of light, and it was so poor he found himself stumbling over loose stones. Water dripped from various places, and their shadows were cast on the curved walls as if the passage were filled with demonic beasts.

A few minutes in that foul-smelling cesspit brought them to an exit ladder, but the tunnel continued on beyond that. Regina stood back and gestured to the soldier, giving him the privilege of exiting first. Such a display of trust among allies he thought, smirking as his former captor was forced up the ladder.

A sound of water splashing from the far end reached them as the guard reached the top and opened the manhole, showering them with light. Regina pushed him up the ladder and crouched behind a column, but it was the same man from before. He collapsed in front of her breathing heavily. Even from the ladder Kirk saw the blood stain had spread from his shoulder down the entire left side of his body.

"Up now, all of you. I've set the entire foundry to detonate with the general's men inside. They've killed most of the guards already," he spat, but Regina paused and pulled him to his feet. "Twice now I've had to do this," she said, trying to sound reassuring and failing.

Still, despite the difficulty they all reached the exit alive. Edward looked at his new surroundings and saw to his surprise despite the warning that they were deep in one of Merestan's abandoned industrial zones. Thick columns of smoke rose nearby and he could smell the fire as a gust of wind blew down the alley bringing intense heat with it. Ruined, rusty factories and manufacturing complexes surrounded them; there was no obvious exit and no markings to indicate an escape route.

The soldier waved his submachine gun at them, standing at the far side of the alley. "There's a way through the munitions factory at the back, leads to another underground – "he began before a burst of gunfire ripped through his chest and he collapsed to the floor.

"Down the alley, move in and clean it out," shouted a man around the corner from the shaking body of the soldier. He dived behind a protruding brick column but didn't expect it to do much good. The injured officer collapsed on top of him and he saw he was wearing one of the same communicators the SORT team had used when capturing him. It was glowing bright blue.

He waited there, heart pounding, when he heard all he needed to know. A male voice shouted "Drop your weapon," accompanied by the sound of combat boots on brick. He looked around the side and saw two men in Alvernian uniforms pointing rifles at Regina. Her shotgun was raised, but it would do no good against the two of them.

"You behind the column, come out now or your friend's dead," he ordered, and Kirk did so. There was nothing to be gained by resistance. Still, he left Mirzin in the shadows where he lay, apparently undetected. She hesitated a moment longer as he approached but lowered the weapon until the speaker fell to the floor with a scream, a burst of bullets tearing him apart from behind. The dying guard he so despised had shot the man from the floor, a satisfied smirk on his face before he too was killed as the other man shot executed him on the spot. The soldier turned back and raised the gun again, finger on the trigger, but Kirk had had enough of being captured and treated like cattle. The man's actions showed he considered the ruined researcher no threat at all, though likely he knew who he was. He glanced over at Regina, but there was no message he could send. As he began to speak Kirk seized the rifle and pulled it into the air while he threw his full weight into the soldier. It wasn't much, and it certainly wasn't enough. The man thrust the rifle back, smashed his already damaged ribs with the stock and threw him to the floor.

His vision blurred and the pain in his chest was almost unimaginable. He held himself up on his hands and knees, barely breathing, and then vomited on the brick alley before he lost even that must strength and collapsed entirely. He was thrown back again and an incredible burst of heat washed over him as he heard a deafening gunshot followed by even more shooting in the street outside. By the time the pain subsided enough for him to look up from the floor the sky was filled with smoke and flame. The man he'd attacked was dead, his entire abdomen ripped apart by Regina's shotgun; the ground was covered in his entrails, blood running down the gaps in the pavement.

Kirk crawled up to the brick wall and leaned against it, his already disgusting clothes covered in vomit and gore. How had his life come to this? He turned his head with great difficulty and peered out the end of the alley. Regina was speaking to two men in grey clothes, vaguely military but in no uniform he recognised. Three corpses lay between them, but men were entering the alley with stretchers.

"What have we done?" gasped a voice by his side. Mirzin was leaning there, barely conscious, but his eyes were wide and fixed on the burning foundry in the distance. The officer burst into laughter, coughing up a mouthful of blood in the process. "I just killed an entire platoon of Alvernian soldiers. I just don't understand," he continued, pausing to take a deep breath, "why would they even attack us?"

Edward was in no state to answer, but he'd have liked to comment on the absurdity of asking a man who they'd been keeping in a dungeon under said facility for commentary on its fate. He expected unconsciousness to follow, never having experienced a more appropriate time for an easy exit. Of course it failed to eventuate, and he found himself placed in the uncomfortable position of watching more men in grey uniforms load him and the other man into the back of a truck.

It was an uneventful trip. The medical team operated on Mirzin's shoulder as he watched, extracting two bullets and sealing it up in the usual fashion. He was on occasion mistaken for an actual doctor, but he'd never known the first thing about medicine. The head doctor pressed a syringe into his arm and he was finally given some relief.

He awoke later in a hospital bed looking at yet another thick iron door. The walls were painted and the lights more modern, but for all its comforts it was still a cell. He sighed and let his head fall back into the pillow.

"So, not dead after all?" a voice to his right asked.

He looked over, instantly regretting his haste when he felt the spike of pain in his chest. Regina was leaning against the wall, but her uniform had vanished, replaced by a leather jacket and jeans. That in itself was a source of confusion.

"No," Kirk replied, exhaling as he pulled his head up again. "Would it be better if I were?"

She shrugged, expression relaxed in the way always adopted by people trying their best to be reassuring.

"Where am I, exactly?" he asked, too tired for anything more than bluntness.

"Another hidden little facility out in the ruins,' she replied.

"I'd gathered that. But are we on the run, are we outlaws?"

"Nobody saw us, nobody knew we were there, and officially the raid was targeting Borginian-funded insurgents. Hereson turned that one back on the colonel within minutes. I've got to admit, I don't think anyone thought he had it in him."

"Can't have been much of a public victory. How many soldiers died in that foundry?"

"Enough to piss the entire country off," she said, sitting on a metal stool next to the bed and leaning in.

"They're coming today. You need to accept what they offer," Regina murmured, making full eye contact without a hint of anything other than seriousness. "If you meant what you said back in that cell and weren't just fucking with me, I'll see what I can do, but you need to get out of here first."

He found it a tempting offer, all the sweeter coming from her. Still, the image of being little more than an indentured servant for even more military scum was no less sour, and he felt unable to answer.

There's a stain on their blue paint, he thought, eyes fixed on the back wall. When had he last seen the sun? It had to have recently; surely his imprisonment hadn't been for so long. On Ibis Island, perhaps. But all his memories of that place were of sterile halls, rooms deep under the earth, unending monitors and displays and lights. Everywhere he went the lights followed. It was a cold place. They'd built the facility in such a warm location, he knew, but that knowledge seemed incompatible with his memories.

He turned his head back to look at Regina, but she was lost in thought as well. Where was the sternness, the brutality he'd seen such a short time ago? The woman sitting before him hardly seemed the same one who'd just fired a shotgun into a man's stomach without a hint of remorse. Her expression was beyond his ability to describe, but it was undoubtedly familiar.

Finally decided, Kirk looked up at the ceiling and exhaled, drawing her attention. "I'm tired of being hunted like a beast." He was utterly exhausted. He gathered his energy despite that and pulled himself off the bed, managing at least to sit if not stand.

The door opened, sliding back into the wall with barely a sound. The man who entered was not the one he'd expected, and judging from the way Regina moved to the side of the room, hand calmly sitting near the pistol on her hip, she hadn't expected him either.

"Well, isn't this nice?" the man said as he closed the door behind him, smiling as if meeting his friends for lunch.

Neither of them responded. "Not the welcome home party I was hoping for either," he said, standing before the two of them.

"Harper? How could you possibly be here? You were sent to Ibis Island with Rick," Regina asked.

"That's Major Frank Harper, Lieutenant whoever you are. I like your red hair, very fashionable. Anyway, I assure you I've had a worse week than the two of you. Shot, nearly blown apart, and then they call me back to sort out your mess when I'm barely out of the hospital. Had to sneak into my own city through a sewer, and not the slightest bit of gratitude for it either,' Harper said, sitting in the vacant seat with a grimace.

Kirk looked at him more closely. His black hair was greying, his face angular, and his smirk was decidedly unpleasant. He couldn't have been much older than thirty. His years surrounded by officials, military men, and scum of all descriptions had given him a good insight into the personalities of those around him. This one was difficult to judge.

"Fascinating,' Regina replied, tone indicating it was anything but. "How are we doing this?"

"Hereson thinks you're dead, Doctor. There are so many burnt corpses under that old foundry that nobody can say for sure, so you're in luck. Even better, your lovely new friend here has argued on your behalf for a fairer arrangement," Harper said, grinning at the two of them. Kirk glanced over at Regina in surprise, but she ignored him in favour of watching the messenger.

Harper pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, looked over it for a moment, and shredded it. "You'll be given whatever resources we can manage to continue your work on the Third Energy. In return for support, security, financial compensation, and a guarantee that you can continue your work in peace, you'll be developing this technology solely for _us._ Not the Alvernian government or military as a whole, you understand." He shrugged as if it were obvious. "Of course you understand."

"That's not very specific," Kirk objected, surprised at the vagueness of the offer.

"Does it need to be? You're believed dead by the Alvernian military, but you're a wanted criminal if you're not. Borginia have some serious questions they want answered concerning the research facility you worked at and the sudden violent deaths of every employee other than you, and you have no assets to speak of otherwise," Harper replied, tone still light.

"Besides," he continued, "what other allies do you have?"

"That works both ways," Kirk replied, rearranging the bandages around his chest as he spoke.

Harper remained silent for a moment. "You're more right than you know. We'll all on the line, and that makes people desperate." He rose, the unpleasant smile already back on his face. "You'll be moved soon, but I wasn't told when. Oh, and Lieutenant, your friend gave me a message for you. But that can wait. Enjoy your day, Doctor."

And with that said he left, leaving the two of them alone again.

"That man is far too cunning. You'd do well to get rid of him before he does the same to you," Kirk muttered.

"You may be right, but neither of us is in a position to make that call,' Regina replied, heading for the door. "I'm sure you'll prove me a fool for doing this, but I've bought you your chance. Don't overestimate your value – this is the only one they're going to give you. I'll see you soon." She nodded back at him and left, the door locking behind her.

He lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head. He knew he could be eloquent, but charismatic? As Regina had alluded, his last research team despised him. If anything he said had convinced her, it was only because it played on pre-existing thoughts of her own.

Still, he considered, perhaps that was better. But if that was the case, then what were her intentions? And that man, Harper. He'd all but said that they were conspiring against both the Borginians and their own government. Had she picked up on that little detail? Not for the first time he found himself with nothing to do but wait for those with more power to return. Still, the circumstances were entirely changed, and he knew he that soon after they did he'd finally be in a position to make his own demands.


	8. Chapter 8

Author Note: These chapters are getting quite long, and that makes it more difficult to find and correct errors. In the unlikely event that anyone reads this sort of thing, please understand that anything I post should be considered little more than a first draft.

It was a solemn day down to the last detail, entirely appropriate for the seriousness of the occasion. Thick clouds covered the sky, painting the city grey and setting the scene for the arrival of the first of many cars in the funeral procession being held for the soldiers killed in the recent raid in the all but abandoned south-western industrial zone two weeks before. It promised to be quite the event, with a major speech on the nation's response to the crisis scheduled to take place shortly after the conclusion of the funeral service.

An entire district had been closed off for the event, and every security precaution taken. Streets were blocked, guards patrolled the roads, snipers waited on rooftops, and certain members of the crowd were officials in plain clothes placed there to pre-empt any problems. High ranking representatives of both the government and military were present in large numbers, all eager to seize a rare opportunity to be seen in a positive light.

Major General Hereson was the man of the hour and he certainly wasn't going to waste the opportunity. He and his entourage, including two ministers and his entire staff, were standing under heavy guard by a marble monument in a park. For some time they'd been speaking to members of the public from all levels of society, all recorded by the legions of media teams swarming anyone of note.

Regina was, of course, expected to attend, as was every other member of Colonel Royce's office. She stood alone under the cover of an outdoor café at the entrance to a side street far from anyone of significance. Had she been any choice in the matter she'd have been out of the city entirely, but that would only have caused more difficulty for all of them.

After the dust had settled and the last of the many chemical hazards spread by the explosion and resulting fire had been contained, the exact details of the day no longer seemed to matter. The raid on Royce's makeshift facility under the foundry had benefited all involved, at least those who didn't have to do the fighting. Anti-Borginian sentiment was absolutely everywhere, and the public seethed in anger over the deaths of nearly fifty of their men in, as the media called it, an act of vile cowardice and unforgivable treachery.

Intrigue and espionage had been her life for five years, but there was something far seedier about the existence she'd been asked to accept now. Neither Hereson nor Royce acknowledged the truth of what had happened except among their own men, and she was expected to do the same. Images of the man she'd killed were especially difficult. An Alvernian soldier like her, and she'd thrust a shotgun into his stomach and shot him to conceal a series of lies. That man, one of the few corpses to still have a face, had become the symbol of Alvernia's hatred for the Borginian funded insurgents, and none of it had the slightest basis in truth.

The hero of the hour, at least to the few who knew what he'd done, was Dmitri Mirzin. Risking his life to detonate the explosives placed to bury the facility in the event of an attack and then summoning the men in grey for assistance was more than he'd ever been expected to do, though he'd suffered dearly for it. Her own role in the affair was being kept quiet deliberately, and that was how she preferred it. He'd been left with Kirk in the same facility while they waited for an opportunity to smuggle the researcher out undetected.

"It's going to look suspicious if you stand around here all day," a man behind her said as he approached the café.

She'd been so preoccupied with her thoughts that she hadn't even heard him coming, but it still didn't come as a surprise. "Mind's always on the job, right Gail? At least some things never change."

Gail stopped by her side and stood silently for a moment, eyes focused on the cars passing in the next street. "It's the only way to avoid ending up in one of those," he replied, nodding at the black funeral cars.

She looked at him more closely. They hadn't had the opportunity to speak for three weeks, but Gail wasn't the type to do so unless he had something specific to discuss. His hair hadn't changed, his clothes were high quality, practical, and unmemorable, and his face was still the same unreadable glare it'd always been.

"You don't think those men had their mind on the job?"

"If they did, then their commander was incompetent. Pick the right men for the job and don't go in unprepared,' he said, the disdain in his voice completely undisguised. "They should've sent a team of people like us in to do it quickly and quietly. No time to raise the alarm or call for backup that way."

Unless they wanted those soldiers to die, and that was an idea Regina had been considering ever since it happened. "What do you think they'll do now?" she asked, trying to change the subject to something less delicate.

"Doesn't matter, we're going to be busy either way. Promotion or not, nobody forgets your background in this place."

The conversation slowed as it always did with Gail, and they watched the procession in silence. Many of the bodies hadn't been found, and others were so disfigured it was nearly impossible to determine which side they'd been fighting for. She'd been told the 'recovery' teams were more interested in evidence than recovering corpses, though the public had been told another story entirely.

Regina glanced back at him and saw with surprise his hands were tightly gripped around the railing and his expression was unnatural, as if he was putting effort into looking calmer than he was. He noticed her staring but remained as he was.

"Something wrong, Gail?" she asked, eyes fixed on the cars ahead.

The thick muscles in Gail's arms were completely knotted. "I need to ask you what happened in that foundry."

That was a rather confusing request, she thought. He'd have been told the details, surely, and even if he suspected treachery, what would she know? "Not much I can tell you. Royce had his assistant pick me up from my hotel that morning. We drove to the foundry, were checked over by the guards there, and then they showed me where Kirk was being held. I thought I was making progress with him, but then I heard the gunshots. We followed the tunnels to a manhole outside and were rescued by the men Mirzin called in."

He stared at her for a moment to the point that it felt like an interrogation. Regina took a seat at one of the tables, but by then he seemed satisfied. "So who were these men?"

"I hate to say it, but I'm really no more informed than you are. They had grey clothes, might have been a uniform. Never seen them before, haven't seen them since." she replied, a note of irritation creeping into her voice.

More staring followed, but fortunately not for long. "I believe you," he replied, taking the seat next to her, "but if there's anything you think I should know, now's the time." She shook her head, not entirely sure what he expected her to say. Even so, it really did seem like he was trying to tell her something and failing miserably.

The last car finally passed and Gail looked at his watch. "Still two hours until the service is done. I need to go, they'll expect me back. I'll see you soon," he said, rising to his feet and nodding at her. She turned her head to watch him leave and he hesitated again, turning halfway back before reconsidering and leaving. The words still hadn't come, and she knew they probably never would.

The amplified sound of a man speaking through a speaker systems filled the air shortly after, though she'd chosen a spot to stand so far away from the rest that the exact words were too faint to hear. The street began to fill with people looking for a place near the officials giving the speech. Many held signs, the majority of which seemed to call for revenge against the 'attackers'.

As the protest began so did the chants and the displays of public anger. The guards provided little resistance, though she'd expected that. Why would they, when the protests provided invaluable support? She saw another group approaching, this one closer to her position. Their leader, a muscular man missing half his left arm, shouted something at the larger group and nearly started a public fight; the guards waited far too long before intervening.

The media captured it all on film, of course, she noted. It really was a game to these people. Unable to stand the façade being paraded before her a moment longer, Regina left the café for the other end of the street, intending to get as far from the funeral and the officials as she possibly could.

But of course that was impossible. The streets were filled with patrols because of the new security measures justified by the 'attack'. She reached the end of a long commercial road and was stopped at a checkpoint by the entrance to a public park.

"If you're heading east I'll need to see your papers," the guard said in a bored, disinterested tone, eyes fixed on her red hair. He held a rifle in both hands, and two more men were stationed by the same intersection.

"Then I'm heading anywhere but east," she snapped, pushing past and heading for the other end of the road. He didn't bother challenging her.

For some time she wandered the streets, but the more time she spent exploring that foul, decrepit city, the more anxious and the more restless she became. The streets were poorly maintained and abandoned buildings were common even in the inner city. Fatigue set in and she admitted defeat, returning to the hotel and pausing at the stair leading to the rooms. She reconsidered, fully aware her absence from the ceremony would be noticed, and turned back to the bar.

The hotel's bar was spacious but dark, built primarily from stone. A large window faced the eastern sky, but any sun they'd expected to enter was blocked by a brick wall on the other side. The room smelled faintly of tobacco smoke and detergent. A wilted palm sat in a pot on the carved stone floor, and she found the sight of that miserable plant a poor greeting, if an appropriate one.

She took a seat on the far end of the bar, two seats from one of the three other people in the room. One was nearly asleep in a seat by the window, drool running down his bearded chin and grease on his clothes. The other was the young woman staffing the bar, one who showed her social skills by remaining silent when she saw the clear frustration on Regina's face. The last was a man in a collared shirt and jeans drinking some colourless liquid at the bar.

"You're here earlier than expected. Not very fond of parades?" asked the man to her right a minute after she took her seat.

Clumsy pick-up line, if that's what it was, but what does he mean _expected_. She turned her head with some effort and realised she knew him. Greying hair and a mocking sneer. But why would Harper be in her hotel, or even still in the city?

"Have you been sent to spy on me? Who would I even betray you to, you imbecile?" she snapped, head in her hands. Her head was pounding, and now even the idea of alcohol brought nothing but nausea.

Harper stared, his expression friendly but lacking real sincerity. "I have better things to do than spy on you, if you must know. Besides, why bother? Work, hotel, work, hotel… not much variation," he replied, sounding utterly bored already.

She didn't bother responding, tired of the games these people played. He'd get to the point before long.

"I was expected to be there too, you know, but I figured I'd rather slit my throat than listen to another one of those ridiculous speeches." He shrugged and looked over at the bartender, who found an excuse to leave for the back room. "I have two things for you to look at, and then I'd like to tell you what's going to happen in the next week."

He passed an envelope to her across the bar. "That's a message from your friend Rick. If not for him I'd likely be dead, though I did return the favour, so delivering his mail seemed like a nice thing to do."

She tore the envelope open. No news from Ibis Island had been shared for some time, and she'd feared the worst. Even Gail hadn't been informed.

The letter was brief, scrawled by hand in Rick's neat print. The look on Harper's face told her he'd already read it. A man like him would be sure to read it and make sure you knew he'd done so.

_We've survived one attack since you last heard from me, but the hangar and second floor have been destroyed. Pretty messy stuff, right? Hope things are better on your end, but from what I hear it's getting pretty tense back home. If they attack in full I don't know how long we can hold, at least without destroying the entire facility. Maybe that's why they've been holding off._

_I've been unable to access the generator; the security controls are being overridden by an outside entity. I figure Kirk's going to know about that, so maybe you can beat it out of him and save me a LOT of trouble._

_Stay safe, and don't do anything rash. Keeping a low profile might be the best way to survive this mess. Still got my charisma even if we are under siege, so that's something; I met a guy you'd like. Similar personality, bit more outgoing. Pretty good looking too. You always did need more friends, right?_

The letter was signed with his elaborate signature, but her impression was that there were things he wasn't willing to discuss on paper. The news of an attack wasn't entirely surprising, but she was worried for her friend. Rick had never been suited to killing or the reality of combat, despite his considerable skills.

She pocketed it and looked back at Harper. "I hope you're not the outgoing friend he mentioned."

He laughed at that. "No, I'm afraid not. Rick's befriended a TRAT officer, which isn't such a bad idea."

She reached over the bar and found a box of painkillers under the counter. "TRAT's full of barbarians," she muttered, swallowing three of the tablets and rubbing the side of her head.

"Are you saying they never think or that they're brutes?"

"Usually both," she replied, perfectly aware that he wasn't finished with her. They'd met twice and both times she'd been left uncomfortable, but nothing he'd said or done had been especially unsettling. Perhaps it was only that she had absolutely no idea what he wanted from her.

"Well, I won't disagree. But you'll find most are that way no matter who they are. Are you? Am I?" He shrugged. "The military attracts the unthinking type, but there are times when I'll see someone, you for instance, who seem to be putting it on because it's expected, not because it's true."

"I'd have thought we'd been friends for years, the way you talk," Regina said, deliberately injecting a note of mockery into her voice.

"Time is usually irrelevant in these matters, I find. Some people have as much to say after one day as they do after ten years. Dullness shows itself early. I joined Royce's group because he seemed a bit more interesting than the rest of them. Even if we do all end up on the wrong end of a firing squad, well, I can think of worse things."

She turned to look at him more closely, realising the bartender still hadn't returned. It was an odd thing to say, really, but she was almost surprised to find the idea of dying in pursuit of something genuinely worthwhile wasn't such an unappealing idea. "So does that make you one of Royce's true believers? They still haven't told me what they believe in, but he has quite a collection of devotees."

"Don't mistake my intentions. Royce is an interesting man, and his goal is an ambitious one," Harper replied, pouring himself another drink. "But it's not my goal. I've never found anything worth chasing, to be perfectly honest."

"Really? Nothing at all?" she asked, unveiled scepticism dripping from her words.

"Not a thing," he said with a sigh, eyes fixed on the clock above the bar. "What could really be worth the bother? And once the goal is achieved, then you've just got to find another one, right?"

He held his hand up to stop her answering. "You can answer that a little later. I'll even indulge your own curiosity, but there's no time for it now."

"Urgent business, of course," she said, flashing a pleasant smile to him. Regina had played enough of these games to realise he wasn't going anywhere. It had occurred to her that the ceremony would have drawn the attention of the entire city and that his presence was unlikely to be coincidental.

"I'll leave that for you to decide," Harper said, his face still twisted into a mockery of a smile. "How do you suppose our good friend the major general found out about that foundry?"

She rubbed her forehead with a closed fist. The painkillers hadn't come close to doing as promised. Fortunately for Harper, his speech was soft enough that she could listen without her head pounding with each word. Even so, she'd been very close to telling him to fuck off, superior officer or not, when he came so close to telling her Royce's goal and didn't. It was worse than being slapped in the face, but she hadn't been any better off before he arrived. "If you don't stop asking me questions you already know the answer to I'm going to give you a reason to be more direct, Harper."

"Someone with a spine at last," he said, draining his glass and dropping it into the sink on the other side. The crash of glass against metal made Regina flinch and woke the man by the window, who sat there stunned for a moment before rising and stumbling out of the room, wanting no part of whatever was happening at the bar.

"That foundry shut down a decade ago along with most of the factories in that area. He needed a private place to hide people he didn't want found, whether his own men or otherwise, so he had parts of it taken over and rebuilt, including some of the drainage tunnels underneath."

"I'd guessed all that already," Regina said. Someone was trying to enter the bar area, she noticed, but a man in the lobby stepped forward and diverted her. She wasn't even surprised.

"Well, it wasn't a bad idea, was it?" Harper said. "Who looks in drainage tunnels under an abandoned foundry for anyone associated with a man of Royce's rank? Anyway, the point I'm making is that nobody's going to just stumble onto that place, especially because the guards would never let them leave alive if they did."

"So who gave the secret away? You?"

"I had considered it, but Hereson's a grubby little man. He does what his backers want and he gets rewarded for it, and how dull is that? No, it had to be someone closer with more to gain."

"And you already know who it is, and are going to share that information in the next three words."

Harper smiled again. "It was Pretsin, the quiet, predictable officer worker. He's not finished yet, but there's another matter you might find interesting," he said, leaning in so close she could smell the vodka he'd been drinking. "He knows Kirk's alive, and because Hereson can't risk another fifty men dying he's likely to make an attempt on the Doctor's life. It happens once and it's a tragedy; it happens twice and he just looks incompetent."

It was an outrageous claim, no doubt, but it was impossible to deny: _someone_ had to have informed on them. Pretsin had worked under Hereson for years, but was too old to expect any career advancement and too cautious to be comfortable with the escalating situation at command.

She thought for a moment, taking care to restrain any displays of emotion on her face or in her tone as she'd been trained to do. "Even if that's true, and I see no reason to believe it is, why would you come to me?"

"Once the ceremony's finished nobody else is going to be in a position to do anything about it. But I came to you because we can handle this without involving the military or any of Royce's men," he replied, completely calm despite the claims he was making.

"And your proof?"

He stood up and gestured at her to follow him. "I'll take you to it. Primary sources are the best sources, I like to think. Certainly the most dramatic."

They left the hotel, and the man in the lobby fell in behind them. She glanced over at him, but he was simply an older man, perhaps in his mid-fifties, wearing an unmemorable black suit and tie. She was curious despite her caution, and quite confident she could kill Harper if it was necessary. The street outside was completely empty. A few cars parked along the side of the road and open windows in an apartment complex to the south were the only signs of life.

Regina followed the two men down an even quieter commercial side street, completely closed for the public day of mourning. A black van was parked at the entrance to an alley, the windows tinted and the sides suspiciously bulky.

Harper saw her staring and shrugged. "I took it from the police station where they're holding the ceremony. They asked what I wanted it for and I told them not to ask the guy in charge of the major general's security what he wants their van for unless they want to be in the back of that van." His assistant opened the back door while they watched the street.

"And how'd you get away with that?" she asked, not particularly interested but willing to indulge him.

"It's never too difficult. Just look like you belong there, act like a self-righteous cunt, and threaten people with your rank," he murmured, looking around the edge of the van and gesturing at her to follow.

Until that point she'd expected documents, perhaps video evidence. Even nothing at all was a likely option. Harper was charismatic if a little odd, though he seemed friendly enough. As he turned the corner, left hand in his pocket, she recalled Kirk's words two weeks before. He'd spent fifteen minutes with the man and told her to kill him before he could kill her. It was a nervous joke, or so she'd thought.

They turned the corner and the dignified assistant stepped back as Harper put one booted foot in the van. And then she saw it past his thin body. A middle-aged woman, wrists and legs bound with rope, lay in the otherwise empty van, eyes wide with terror. She was attempting to speak or scream, but her mouth was gagged.

"Just what have you done, Harper?" she snapped, having a sickening feeling she knew who the woman must be.

"You disapprove? Pretsin's wife can be expected to know Pretsin's business, yes? Especially when the meetings with Hereson's agent are held in their house," Harper replied, sneering at his captive. He nodded at the older man, and he stepped forward and removed the gag.

The woman pushed herself back and looked directly at Regina. "Please, tell them it's not my husband. He's never betrayed anyone," she said, voice shaking.

Regina realised she'd been singled out as a potential savior. Harper was wearing casual clothes and his assistant a suit. Her uniform marked her out as a lieutenant, and the woman must have recognised the insignia.

Harper knelt down. "There's no need for fright. If he's not the traitor your husband may be in immediate danger, and the lieutenant is the only one who has the power to save him," he murmured, tone soft and reassuring.

The complete change in tactic had the desired effect. She was still shaking, but the fear in her eyes was now mixed with confusion.

"Is it true that your husband has been periodically meeting an officer in your home?"

The woman hesitated, looked between the three of them, and sighed in defeat. "A young woman, several times in the last month."

Harper pulled a photograph from his pocket and showed it to Regina and then Pretsin's wife. It was a blonde woman in Alvernian uniform, stern-faced and missing the top half of her left ear, a distinctive marking on anyone. She stared for a moment and nodded in agreement, that yes, this woman had been meeting Pretsin periodically over the month.

The assistant passed a larger photograph to Regina, one showing the entirety of Hereson's staff at an informal event. The major general was sitting at a table with two men she recognised as members of his office, but the same woman was also at the table holding a drink and smiling at the photographer.

"Your husband has been meeting the personal secretary of the most powerful man in the city," he declared, voice leaving no room for doubt. He spun around, soft tone and manner completely gone. "Tell the lieutenant what you told me about the packages."

Regina listened with a sinking feeling in her stomach as the woman stammered her way through a response. Pretsin had delivered an envelope to Hereson's secretary with each visit, and received one within the last week that he'd hidden behind a bookshelf.

Harper looked over his shoulder, his meaning obvious. "Did you ever listen in on these conversations?" he whispered, voice so quiet Regina barely heard his words.

The captive gasped, tears gathering in her eyes. "I never listened in on anyone, I swear," she stammered, head darting between the three of them. "Why would I do such a thing?" She was weeping openly at this point.

"Because your husband was unsatisfied with his life, believed you both were in danger, and was meeting an attractive young woman while you sat in the hall desperate to know why," Regina said, not unkindly.

The woman was broken. "I only listened in on them once. He was talking about something, but I didn't understand it. He said that a captive had been moved again, this time to a factory. I was so ashamed of myself to have heard even that much." She burst into tears once more and buried her head in her hands.

"And when were they next going to meet?"

"He told me I had to be out of the house after five this afternoon."

Regina stepped outside and took a breath of fresh air. It was half an hour after the meeting time already, but there was little doubt left that Pretsin was guilty. Harper stepped out after her a moment later, but said nothing.

"We need to warn the Colonel," she said, rubbing her head in a futile attempt to relieve the throbbing headache. Had the painkillers actually made it worse?

"No time for that, especially after the ceremony's done. The meeting's already started, so we're going to handle it ourselves." He checked the streets, saw that they were empty, and nodded at his assistant.

The man in the suit stepped out of the van bringing Pretsin's wife with him. Her restraints were removed, and the two stepped into the alley.

"Does this mean my husband's innocent?" she asked, eyes darting back to Regina and the comfort of her status as an official.

"There's no need to worry about that now. I'm terribly sorry for scaring you, but you understand what's at stake. You're free to leave, but you can't go home until tomorrow, do you understand?" Harper said, standing beside her with no trace of the interrogator left on his features.

She grasped onto his words as if they were a lifeline. "Oh, thank you so much for understanding. Talk to him and you'll see he's done what's best for the country. I'll stay at my brother's house tonight," she said, voice still trembling as if she didn't believe her luck. She turned around to leave, and as soon as she was facing the street Harper seized a knife from his belt and buried it in the base of her neck.

He stepped to the side, avoiding the spray of blood as the woman fell to the floor. Regina's hand jumped to her pistol, but she resisted the urge to withdraw it. The woman's body shook as her blood ran down the filthy stones of the alley into the gutter. Regina watched, motionless, until the shaking subsided and she fell still.

As she watched the murderer instruct his accomplice to empty her purse and take all the valuables she realised how sordid and vile her life had become. Most of all she realised she'd felt nothing. Not when the woman cried, not when her eyes lit up at the merest suggestion of release, and not when he killed her on the street without the slightest sign of distress.

Harper's cold grey eyes met her own, the knife resting at his side. "There was no other choice, she'd seen both of us," he began, words fading as he watched her. "But you already understand that, don't you?"

They took any items of worth and left the corpse to rot in the street. To the unknowing it would appear little more than a particularly brutal robbery, and those who knew better would never have the opportunity to prove anything. Kirk may have been right to judge Harper as he did, she thought, but if that were so, what did that say about her?

The van pulled out of the alley and left the scene behind. Regina sat in the passenger seat and the assistant waited in the back.

"We'll be there in ten minutes. There's a shotgun and ammunition in the bag by your foot, if you'd prefer a more suitable weapon," he murmured. They took a left turn toward the coastal district.

"You planned this down to the last detail. If you hadn't spent the last hour convincing me of his guilt you could have done it yourself by now."

"That's true, but you see why it had to be done this way," Harper replied. And it was true that she acted as a witness and as valuable backup, but that seemed little more than a thin excuse.

"Cut the bullshit. What do you need me for?"

He remained silent for a long moment. "You were scheduled to be arrested after the conclusion of the ceremony. Internal security found a data disc in your hotel room ripped straight from the servers at the port office. I expect you'll be grateful to avoid prison."

"And?" she asked, dejected by the prospect of arrest for such a small oversight. Gail's visit at the café was beginning to take on a different meaning; he'd likely been informed of the decision. She had considered the possibility of the revelation being a lie, but the only choice was to accept it as true or risk arrest. "Has anyone else been targeted?"

Harper shrugged. "If they were willing to go after someone as low level as you, probably. But I only know that much because I was in the hotel while they searched your room. You think it's a coincidence that they were going to arrest you today when everyone's at the ceremony? I don't."

They pulled over outside a public laundry and Harper pointed to a small apartment complex on the far end of the street. "Pretsin lives on the second highest floor facing the street, apartment number 4B. Expect a lookout or two; it's standard procedure." She heard the back doors of the van close as the man in the suit came out with a heavy black case.

"Kosirim is quite reliable. He'll be covering us from the opposite rooftop." The older man left without a word, giving off a perfect impression of a tired businessman wishing he were anywhere but where he was. "I've also left a change of clothes in the top compartment in the back of the van. You can hardly expect to enter unnoticed wearing _that_."

They entered the apartment complex without any real attempt at secrecy, passing a black car parked in the main street on the way in. The clothes Harper had provided, a collared shirt and black trousers, were completely unmemorable. Harper carried the bag concealing the shotgun, but they both wore pistols and carried knives. The main hall of the apartment smelled faintly of damp wood, and Regina noticed the wallpaper was peeling through the dim light. A small elevator was built into the back wall, but they opted for the stairs, neither willing to trust the old machinery with their lives.

"I'd have thought a few decades in the service would pay for a better place than this," she muttered to Harper as they reached the second floor stairs.

"Debt can ruin the best of men," he replied, throwing the bag back over his shoulder.

The fourth floor was in a better state of repair than those below. The wallpaper was fresh, the lights bright, and the potted palms green and healthy. Apartment 4B was the second of two on the floor, which was unoccupied with the exception of a man in a suit engaged in a heated conversation over the phone.

As they draw near the door the man's eyes tracked them from his position by the door of the other apartment. "Hey, buddy, sorry to interrupt, but is that Mr Jurson's apartment? We've been looking for him all day," Harper said, approaching the man with an apologetic smile on his face.

"Who? Try the next floor, I don't have time for this," he replied, scowling at the interruption. He resumed his conversation until he felt the barrel of Harper's pistol pressed into his stomach. Regina stepped up and plucked the phone from his fingers.

"Stay calm and don't move. We know who you are and why you're here," Harper whispered in his ear while Regina held the phone away from them. "We need you to let us into room 4B. Then continue your conversation as before. Do this and you will not be harmed. Try to alert the room's occupants or your friend and you will both die; we have a sniper watching the car outside."

To his credit their captive complied almost instantaneously. He was likely private security, she knew, and there was no reason to die like a fool just for a wage. She drew her gun and stood on the side of the door as the two approached it. It all went to plan until they heard the gunshot outside the apartment blocks. The prisoner used the slight second as the door opened to slam his elbow into Harper's chest and jump to the side. A woman screamed from within, and Regina swore under her breath at the mess they'd gotten themselves into.

The guard attempted to pull a pistol from his jacket, but stopped upon seeing Regina's aimed at his head. Pretsin's apartment was well-lit and stylishly decorated with many paintings adorning the walls and the smell of lavender in the air. The woman from the photograph sat at a table in the dining area, but there was no sign of Pretsin or his family except a photograph of the man with his wife and a young woman Regina assumed was his daughter.

"What a fucking mess," she muttered as Harper rose from the floor with the shotgun in his hands.

"I know you," the woman at the table said, a shaking hand pointed at Harper. "What are you doing here, Michael? Has something happened?"

"Oh, yeah, something's happened. The man who lives here: where is he?"

"I can't tell you that, do you know what the general would do to me?" she answered, voice full of indignation. Regina realised with a sinking feeling the woman didn't have the slightest idea what was happening. Was there an alternative? She didn't see one.

A second shot rang out through the room and the man in the suit collapsed on the floor. Regina lowered her gun and the secretary screamed again, covering her eyes and retching in disgust.

"We don't have time for this. Where is Pretsin, and what did he tell you this afternoon?"

"He's gone," she whispered, eyes still covered.

"Where?"

She pushed a sheet of paper towards them. "He has an assignment. That's why I'm here. He's making a deal to get out of the military."

Regina looked at the sheet, eyes widening in surprise. "In exchange for a generous lifelong pension, house by the coast, and immediate retirement, Pretsin's exchanged all his data on Royce's private operations. The deal will be complete once he personally assassinates Edward Kirk."

"Looks like we know where he's going," Harper replied, the shotgun still held on the girl at the table. "How long ago did he leave?"

"Twenty minutes, sir," she replied, stammering in fear. "I didn't negotiate any of it, I swear, I'm just the person they sent to confirm it."

"I know. It's not your fault. The system that put us here is to blame for this mess," he replied. Regina heard the faint sounds of sirens in the distance, and the two glanced at each other.

"We need you to look out the window while we leave. When the police arrive give them our descriptions, but modify the details. You'll understand why we had to do this soon," he continued in the same voice. The sirens were closer still, but Regina looked at him with revulsion despite knowing there was no alternative.

The girl nodded and complied immediately, though Regina found even that to be unusual. She waited at the window, eyes fixed on the building across from the apartment. Regina took both the secretary's paperwork and the package hidden behind the bookshelf and stood in the hall until she heard the gunshot. Harper joined her a moment later, his face twisted into a look of loathing for a brief moment before he saw her watching.

The fire escape stairwell served as their escape route, passing the black car by the entrance and the dead driver within on the way out. Kosirim picked them up in the black van. They passed the police squad two streets after leaving Pretsin's apartment block.

"We don't have much time if we're going to keep Kirk alive. The hospital facility is only lightly guarded, but he's not going to expect any resistance," Regina said, watching the rows of apartments pass outside the window.

"That would be unfortunate. I saw what it can do. The power of a god and all you'd have to do to get rid of it is kill him and destroy that facility. It's all so fragile," he murmured, eyes fixed on the distant sky.

She watched him again. Could he be trusted? It was unlikely. The man had manipulated no less than three people into trusting him in the last few hours, and all three of them were now dead. Whatever he actually wanted would have to be revealed eventually, but he could easily kill her before then. Avoiding public appearances, killing anyone who could identify him… it might be that Kosirim was his only ally in the city.

"Here we are," Harper announced. They left the van by the side of a warehouse; one Regina knew was a front for one of the Colonel's private storage facilities. A blue car was parked on the same road; otherwise the entire street was empty.

He passed the shotgun to Regina without a word. "Well, we'd better get started," she said, taking the first step toward the warehouse. It promised to be a long night.


	9. Chapter 9

"I'm afraid I must insist. If I have to stay in this ugly little room a moment longer I'm going to make the rest of the night absolutely miserable for you."

The man he was persuading slumped even further into his chair. "Look, the ceremony's nearly done and this speech is too important to miss. If I did miss it they'd kill me," he groaned, straining to hear the voices coming out of the television.

Kirk ran his hands through his freshly washed blonde hair. His status had been upgraded from prisoner to 'guest', but at least they let him use the showers. That first touch of scalding water had to have been one of the best sensory experiences of his entire life. Even so, he'd been trapped in the same series of underground rooms for the past two weeks, and the fluorescent lights and baby-blue paint, not to mention the boredom, were testing his sanity.

Convincing Dmitri Mirzin, the man who'd been officially given the job of living there with him, to let him go on the rooftop was the only way to escape the labyrinth. Since they were all supposed to be friends he usually caved in and agreed, though reluctantly. Mirzin had been shot in the shoulder twice in the escape from the foundry, and though he avoided the subject it was clear that he wasn't recovering. He'd watched in secret as the man tried to hold a cup of water, but his fingers didn't have the strength to grip even that.

They weren't the only two in the facility, but the other visitors only appeared infrequently and never said much. The doctor who'd been treating them appeared most days, but she insisted that Kirk's ribs weren't damaged too severely, though one was fractured. Most of her time was spent in private discussions with Mirzin while Kirk was left to amuse himself. The guards patrolled the upper floors exclusively.

They had a television for news and a collection of badly written books and a few well-worn board games for entertainment. They still weren't willing to trust him with internet access, and why he'd been detained for so long when they all claimed the need for his skills was urgent hadn't been explained. He supposed it could only mean someone else was looking for him.

"I don't like the sound of this," Mirzin muttered, leaning in closer to the screen. Kirk had been avoiding the broadcast out of spite, but his curiosity and boredom overcame his pettiness and he moved his seat next to the other man.

"… identified by our top agents as a facility on an island in the south-west sea," stated a military representative to the media.

"Do we know just how complicit the Borginian government is in the deaths of the fifty men?" asked a middle aged reporter Kirk could only describe as greasy.

The redheaded spokesman paused for thought. "It may be that the conspiracy is limited to certain factions in their government, but we won't be taking any risks. Central command has full confidence in Colonel Royce's ability to find and eliminate the culprits, and we are willing to state that any resistance to our investigation of the island these extremists are using as their base of operations will be taken as an admission of guilt by all parties involved."

"What will be the Colonel's first move, Major?" asked the same reporter, holding the microphone obnoxiously close to the man's face.

"We will not be discussing operational matters so specifically for obvious reasons, but the Colonel has already left the city to begin the first stage of the mission." The interview continued, but Kirk was more interested in Mirzin's opinion than the Major on the screen's scripted responses.

"So your boss has been told to eliminate the Borginian insurgents by capturing, I presume, Ibis Island? Am I missing something, or are they just stupid?"

Mirzin's gaze shifted from the TV to Kirk. "He's being removed from Merestan along with all his staff. Whether Borginia really is funding these guys or not, they're not going to just let us walk all over them like this. Gets us out of his way into a position where we'll probably all be dead within a month," the other man replied, his forehead creased in worry.

"Removing him to an island with a functioning Third Energy generator," Kirk said, almost laughing at the absurdity of the move. "Or doesn't Hereson know what that means?"

"I think you're the only one who knows what that means. It's a smart move based on what he does know."

Kirk laughed, smirking at the officer. "You must be wondering why they're all so interested in my work."

"I had wondered that. Seems like we're all going to die because of you and your work. Maybe I should kill _you_, just like that."

Kirk pulled his chair over to Mirzin's place on the couch. "How about we make a deal? You tell me what Royce's goal is, why he's caused so much of a mess, and preferably why Hereson hates him so much. I tell you what the Third Energy does and why I'm so important."

Mirzin's eyes widened in surprise. "And I thought you weren't ever going to open your mouth except to insult me."

"I've been pleasant company and you know it. So is it a deal, or should we both go back to guessing the answers we won't share?"

He knew Mirzin would crack, and judging by the pitiful attempts the man was making to pretend he was hesitant, he knew it too.

After a final moment of silence he gave Kirk an answer. "Ever notice how nothing ever improves around here? What am I saying, of course you must have. Call it corruption or just the way it works, but both the military and the elected government are backed by the same people, and they're only in it for themselves. He wants a change in management."

"So that's it. I was convinced he had to be either a hopeless idealist or a manipulative sociopath." It was the answer he'd expected, but there was no need to be disappointed. Based on his observations there were few other reasons for such reckless behaviour from a man of his status.

"Either? So which is it?"

He shrugged, noting the broadcast had entered the phase where media personalities discussed the revelations amongst themselves. "It's entirely possible that he's both, but that depends on whether he intends to change the system that allows such groups of people to exist or simply wants to replace them with himself and his friends."

"Does Hereson know that? Is he one of these mystery men?" he asked, genuinely curious. The major general had never seemed particularly interesting to him.

"I think so," Mirzin said, reaching for the remote control on the table to his left. "I always thought he was a bit… ordinary, but if he had it in him to storm our foundry, maybe not." The remote fell to the floor and Mirzin flinched, his jaw clenching in frustration.

"Not even thirty, and my left arm's useless," he muttered with a sigh, sinking so low into the seat Kirk could barely see him past the armrest.

He reached over and handed the remote back. "Two weeks is hardly enough time to make that kind of assessment."

"Oh, you're a real doctor now? Good to know," Mirzin snapped. He apologised a moment later, but Kirk didn't hold it against him. He knew he'd be taking such an injury even harder than the assistant was.

They remained silent for a moment, but Kirk was quite aware he still hadn't been asked to uphold his end of the deal.

"Have I seen that man somewhere before?" he asked, pointing to an image of a man being shown on the television.

Mirzin looked back at the screen, turning the volume up as he did so. "Might have been one of the guys from the foundry. I think I saw him die, actually," he murmured, a slight hint of confusion in his voice.

A woman spoke over the image. "This man is believed to be leading a group of militants planning attacks throughout southern Alvernia. He is to be considered extremely dangerous. If you see this man, notify the local military authorities immediately. Do not approach him yourself under any circumstances."

His image disappeared, replaced by a live feed of a blonde newsreader with a grave expression. "In related news, several prisoners have shared information leading to the identification of several traitors in the government. As of tonight the identities of these people are to be released publicly. All eight of these individuals are wanted for questioning. They are also to be considered extremely dangerous. The office of Major General Hereson warns that while not every person pictured has been confirmed as a traitor, none of them are to be confronted directly. Inform the nearest officials immediately if you see any of these people, and do not openly panic; this may alert them and endanger your own life."

The woman vanished, replaced by eight photographs. The remote fell to the floor again, but Kirk knew it wasn't because of his crippled arm. Mirzin's photograph was prominently displayed in the top right corner, the smiling man in the image almost impossible to see in the horrified face staring back at the screen.

He scanned the other photographs. One man he saw killed only two weeks before. The next two he didn't know. The fourth was Mirzin, the fifth a middle-aged woman, the sixth a frowning young girl with short red hair. The last two might have been familiar, but he couldn't say for sure.

"Kirk, look, that's her. She's only been in the city a few weeks, why would they go after her?"

He took a closer look at the young woman's picture. The hair was shorter and undyed, and she was definitely younger, but there was no doubt they'd marked Regina as one of the eight traitors. "Both of you will be interrogated and killed if they capture you," he said, feeling a wave of exhaustion overcome him. All eight were associates of Colonel Royce, if he'd guessed correctly. That and the assault on the foundry indicated an information leak, and if that was the case then the inclusion of unimportant or dead faces had to have been done to divert attention from their primary targets.

"I don't think we're safe here. How can Royce do anything with no support in the city? If they knew about the other facility, it's only logical to assume this one may also have been compromised," he murmured to himself, eyes fixed on the blue wall behind the screen.

Mirzin ran to the other side of the room and unlocked a cupboard near the door to the bathroom. "I'm not trained for this kind of thing, what are we meant to do now?" he muttered, rummaging through the supplies and pulling a pistol and box of ammunition out the back of the cupboard.

Edward rose from the chair, watching the man try to awkwardly load the pistol with only his right hand. He sighed in resignation and shoved his hands in the pockets of the jacket they'd given him. Looked like he'd be on the run again, but there would be no deals on the table with these people. They were completely trapped; the complex only had the one concealed door as an escape route, and even if they did leave there was nowhere to hide.

"How many men does Hereson command?" he asked, looking at the furniture in hope he was missing some important detail.

"Twenty thousand, I think," Mirzin called back. "Most of his men are in the base up north or spread around the western districts."

He felt like smashing his head into the wall. There was still a chance they believed he was dead, but he couldn't honestly say that to himself without it feeling like a liar.

The pistol was finally loaded. "We have to assume all the safehouses have been discovered," Mirzin murmured, eyes unfocused as he thought. "There are still security checkpoints at every major district, and I don't know where to go even if we could leave. My savings aren't going to pay for much, and even if they would, I can't just show my face in a store."

The sound of the main door's motor interrupted his planning. They shared a horrified glance as Kirk moved behind the officer and his weapon. "Maybe we could just shoot ourselves," Mirzin muttered, eyes on the gun in his trembling right hand.

Kirk caught a glimpse of a blue uniform as someone came down the stairs. Still, that meant nothing.

"Dmitri? So you're still here," said the man as he entered the room. He was old, and the exhaustion in his voice was clear enough, but it couldn't have been physical.

The pistol lowered an inch. "You saw the broadcast, right? What are we going to do, John?"

He didn't recognise the man, and what reassurance was it that Mirzin knew him? None. 'John' took another step forward and Kirk saw the light shine off his face. There were tears in his eyes.

"There's nothing we can do," John replied. The emotion in his voice was obvious. If anyone should have recognised it, Edward Kirk was that person. Despair and hopelessness wrapped around self-loathing. His own failures inspired the exact same feeling, and it was dripping from that man's voice.

"Don't think like that. The Colonel's made it out of worse than this," Mirzin said, a nervous smile appearing on his face for a brief moment.

"This is different and you know it. He's never going to come back from that island. You never did want to admit we might get burned if we pushed this too far."

"Then why are you here?" Mirzin asked, the hand holding the gun shaking and lowering even further. Kirk was debating the merits of seizing the weapon, but it was impossible to determine whether that was the best course of action.

John was silent for a long, terribly tense moment. He seemed to have difficulty with each word, but eventually broke the silence. "I have to escort Kirk to the port. The last ship leaves in three hours, Doctor," he said, glancing at Kirk for a moment. The man was unable to meet his eyes.

"Very well," Kirk replied, feigning both politeness and complicity. "Let's go, Mirzin."

"He'll never get past the checkpoints. Only the two of us will make it, Kirk. Get moving."

Kirk raised an eyebrow. "Well, isn't that a shame. But do you know, I'm not convinced it's safe for any of us to be on the streets. How do you propose we get to the port unseen? You've seen what they'll do to win, and I can't imagine one of the Colonel's officers would be left to roam the city without being watched."

"I assure you that staying here is far more dangerous than travelling to the port. We'll be there within twenty minutes. I took all precautions to ensure I wasn't seen before entering the facility," he replied in a voice so devoid of emotion it could only be described as mechanical.

"But how could you suggest leaving your injured friend here to be captured and killed?" Kirk asked, putting his hand on Mirzin's shoulder with a smirk. It was too easy for him, really. He looked down at the shorter man and realised he was shaking. Fear, or perhaps anger?

The older man's jaw clenched. "I'm not suggesting anything of that sort, it's just that," he began before breaking off. He looked directly at Mirzin. "I'm sorry, Dmitri, really I am." He swept forward, covering the ground from the door to them within a second, and seized Mirzin's gun. They struggled for a brief moment, but the intruder slammed the palm of his hand into the younger man's wounded shoulder and he fell to the floor with a hiss of pain.

Edward had only reached the first step when the order to stop came. He wasn't suited to or skilled at fighting, and there was nothing he could've done to overpower the traitor even if he'd attacked while they were both standing. He turned around, hands in the air. Looked like he'd be going back to prison, and that was strictly a best case scenario.

"Why'd you do it, Pretsin?" spat Mirzin from the floor. He was leaning against the couch, one hand on his shoulder and the other hanging limp at his side.

"You had to ask? Not all of us are like the two of you. I have a wife and daughter, and do you know what happens to them if I go down with you?" Pretsin's mechanical tone had finally broken, replaced by bitterness and despair. It was the voice of a man filled with self-loathing, and he too was shaking, the pistol aimed at Kirk, who was trying terribly hard not to panic and struggling to keep his stoic expression intact. He refused to die begging for mercy.

Mirzin looked up, but couldn't find the words and lowered his head. Blood was beginning to leak from under his shirt.

"Right. Edward Kirk, I'm going to give you a choice, much like they gave me a choice. You can die now, or you can return with me to western command."

It was an offer that said more about the giver than the receiver. Pretsin had likely considered that choice himself, but a family man always has other concerns. Still, he was beaten. "We'll return to the command centre."

Prestsin nodded, gesturing at the door. "For what it's worth, Dmitri, I'm not going to tell them that you're here. I advise you get out and start over."

Kirk reached the stairs and peered into the small tunnel leading to the surface as his captor tried to soothe his conscience. A hand reached out from within and pulled him up the first few steps with ease, but the forcefulness of their approach ended with him collapsing and smashing his jaw on the stone. Pretsin fired the pistol in shock, the bullet lodging itself in the wall above him.

His saviour in the tunnel leapt down the last few steps while he struggled not to scream from the pain. He rolled himself around and caught a glimpse of the scene in the room before scrambling to hide behind the stone doorframe, fully aware of how pathetic he must look. The tunnel was quite wide and completely unlit, giving him some limited protection.

A man knelt down before him and signalled him to remain silent. It was difficult to tell who he was in the darkness, but judging from the scene below he knew he could guess from a small list just who it must be.

"Kirk, come back out," barked a female voice from below. The man next to the doctor grinned and pulled him back to his feet.

The first thing he saw upon re-entering the room was a woman dressed as an office worker holding a shotgun to John Pretsin, who in turn was holding the injured assistant before him as a human shield. The woman's vivid red hair gave her true identity away, but to think Regina had rescued him twice was almost cause to break into laughter. He'd nearly shot her in the head little more than a month before; if anyone had reason to kill him it was her.

"Well, this is an unpleasant situation," Kirk remarked, looking at the traitor with a smirk. "If you leave without me you're probably dead, but if you try to fight you're certainly dead."

"Shut up, Kirk. I'm sick of cleaning up after you," Regina snapped, taking a step closer to the two men. "If you drop the weapon, you can leave. Take the same advice you gave to Mirzin."

Pretsin was shaking. Risking his own life was one thing, but the consequences were obvious to all of them. If he left alive without killing the doctor it would be taken as a sign of betrayal, but if he managed to kill Kirk he too would die, and all they would need to do is hide his corpse and Kirk's and Hereson would still view it as a betrayal. They'd left him with only one way to secure the safety of his family, but the contemptibility of the plan came as a surprise even to Kirk, who was more familiar than most with all kinds of baseness.

"Throw it all away, and for what?" Pretsin whispered. The look of despair on his face was absolutely pitiful. His captive was barely standing, eyes unfocused and staring at the wall.

"Because it's the only way to keep your family safe," Regina said, but she shuddered and almost hesitated before saying it. What could that possibly mean, he wondered? She rarely chose to show any emotion at all, and that was surely an involuntary display.

Her ploy worked as they all knew it would. Pretsin lowered the injured captive onto the couch and dropped the gun to his side. "I'm sorry you got caught up in this. Neither of you could have seen this coming," he said, the pistol slipping from his fingers to the floor.

The broken man walked to the stair, turning back and looking at the two of them as he did so. Regina said nothing, unable to meet his eyes, but the doctor watched with interest as he took the first step. As he reached the top a single shot was fired, and Regina collapsed into the chair next to the couch, head buried in her hands.

Kirk took a step closer and knelt down next to her. 'You knew that would happen," he said, barely louder than a whisper. She didn't respond, but her eyes jumped to the stair as a man entered the room, his steps echoing off the stone walls.

The grin he'd flashed Kirk in the tunnel was gone, and his grey eyes looked over the three of them, settling on no-one. There were only a few people who could have been helping her now, but Kirk had hoped it wasn't this one. People he couldn't predict were dangerous; Regina was at least predictably dangerous.

Regina's eyes narrowed, gaze still fixed on the man across the room. "You planned every part of this, didn't you? I should have seen it coming."

Harper shrugged, not even bothering to feign innocence. "Pretsin had to die. You wouldn't have killed him."

She stood up, any sign of lethargy vanishing as she did so. "You're right, he did. But if you hadn't murdered his wife we could have went through with the deal."

"I had hoped you'd have more sense than to act the naïve girl," Harper snapped in response, a sneer appearing on his face. "If you want to get caught and killed, that's how you do it. You let Pretsin go, he takes his wife and adorable daughter and runs, and he gets caught and interrogated because he's too busy worrying about them to run far, and then _we_ get killed. I don't need to tell you any of that, but you still feel the need to pretend there was another way to do it."

"No, I don't need to make excuses for myself. We both killed him. But there was no need for you to become involved in this at any point, and yet you've orchestrated the entire thing. Until I know why, I can never trust you," Regina said, entire body rigid. And Edward had to admit, it was a tense moment, even for him. The details of the situation weren't being shared, but clearly they'd shed some blood before coming to this point. That didn't even seem to be the real point of contention.

"If I hadn't picked you up before the military police, you'd have been interrogated (and that word is always a euphemism, you know). After the interrogation the wardens are usually free to do as they like, and can you imagine what a collection of vicious sociopaths would do with you? You'd be begging for death before the end of the week," Harper said, voice soft and calming. Kirk was listening eagerly; he'd always been fascinated by such conversations and the insight they offered, at least when he wasn't a participant.

"Nobody who can kill as coldly as you did today is going to take a risk like that just to save someone you barely know. I appreciate the help, but I need to know what you want in return."

As he watched Harper contemplate his next answer a trickle of blood dripped down the last step and began pooling on the floor.

"I think at this point," Edward interrupted, "that the only person in this room whose motives can reliably be known are his," he said, pointing to Mirzin, who barely even seemed awake.

"That being said, it appears that the four of us are, for lack of a better phrase, stuck together. We're in the fortunate position of being enemies of the state through no fault of our own, am I correct?" he continued, looking between the two of them.

Harper smiled for the first time since entering the room. "Not quite. I've managed to conceal my identity since re-entering the city. Anybody outside this room who could have identified me is now dead. Pretsin was the last."

"Then we'll have to rely on you for outside information, at least for a while."

Regina looked over, puzzled. "What are you suggesting? Because right now the only option I see for you is finding a way to Ibis Island before Royce and his men all die. We're fucked either way, but I'm not going to stop you."

Oh, that was the logical suggestion, at least from her perspective. But not from his. "There's another way." He ran over to the cupboard and pulled a map of Alvernia from it. "The Ibis Island project was my second attempt, but the first was no less viable."

"Yeah, but you blew it up to fake your death. That was in my original briefing when we were sent to find you," Regina said, her scepticism obvious.

"There was no need to destroy it to do that. The facility was underground, quite small and accessible only by elevator and a small concealed stair in a tunnel system. Royce wasn't officially sanctioned to fund me at all, I later learned. When the Borginians made their offer I took the most valuable components with me and their men caved in both entrances."

"Even if that's true, how does a broken prototype generator buried deep underground help any of us, even you?" she asked. Harper was leaning on the front wall, hands in his pockets, but his eyes were fixed on Kirk. "I don't need to remind you that all three times you've tried to make this Third Energy thing work it's blown up in your face, right?"

He clenched his jaw, the accusation stinging more than he'd expected. "The Stabilizer is the last piece. I was so close when they pushed me into the experiment early."

"You've got some nerve asking what I think you're asking."

Harper turned on her. "I think we should do it. None of you are going to get to Ibis Island undetected, and I don't see much reason to go back and die alone."

"Am I missing something? We finish his work, and then what?"

A loud groan announced Mirzin's return as he pulled himself into a slouch. "The Colonel always planned to use its ability to generate near infinite energy to start a revolution. It would change everything, if only it actually worked." His speech was beginning to slur. Had he taken medication, or was he seriously injured? Perhaps it didn't matter. Regina was reluctant, but he saw right through Harper. He looked disinterested, even amused, but his eyes hadn't left the researcher's face for a second.

"And the weapon you were developing for Borginia?" she asked while she cleaned the blood from a grimacing Mirzin's shoulder.

"Nothing more than the result of letting the generator overload. If you can target that overloaded energy it'll vaporise anything. The only requirements are a targeting system and a functioning Stabilizer device." He was close, closer than he'd been since Borginia.

"And suppose we controlled that power, the four of us?" Harper asked, and Edward began to understand.

He spread his hand to both sides, inviting them to imagine the possibilities. "Well, suppose the Ibis Island generator was functional. That Borginian fleet waiting just off the coast? It could be destroyed in less than a second. We'd have the power to demand anything from anyone, make entire cities vanish in a single night."

"Until they bombed the island and blew your generator to bits," Regina said, making the obvious complaint.

"But nobody knows where _this_ generator is. They're all dead. They'll never find us, or even know who we are. We could play the role of a vengeful god if we chose, dealing out punishments at will. Do you want revenge on Hereson? Destroy the entire command centre. Do you want to remake society? Who can stop you? It's all within our reach, and we either take it or we're hunted down and killed for crimes we didn't even commit. _Is that even a choice?"_ He was nearly laughing at the thought, and especially at how close it all was. They had to join him. How could they not?

The internal conflict was written in Regina's face, but it was decided from the start. She leaned back in the chair and sighed, hands behind her head. The shotgun had been abandoned. "If this is how the world really works, what am I protecting if I refuse? I'll play along, but don't expect me to be your servant. I won't help you with anything I wouldn't do myself."

"Oh, I'm perfectly aware of that. We understand each other well, I'm sure."

"Then I only see one problem left," Harper said, looking at each of them in turn. "Where is this generator, and how do we reach it undetected?"

"It was built under the military port for its access to water, but it was only ever accessible through an elevator in the port and a tunnel system that runs under a residential district adjacent to the port. The elevator shaft was completely caved in, but we should be able to unseal the stairway."

They continued to discuss it for several hours, but only the details of the plan's implementation. All four of them were agreed: they would continue to research Third Energy under Hereson's nose, and when the time came and it was complete? Nothing was said of that.

Mirzin would almost certainly want to support his beloved Colonel, but Kirk had no such love for the man or his methods. He'd never forget the manipulations or the condescension he'd endure at his hands. If Royce wanted his help, he'd be paying a steep price for it.

Regina was more difficult to predict, at least in this, but he couldn't see her committing mass murder under any circumstances. She knew far more about what she didn't want than what she did. Harper was the real problem. Who was he, and what were his goals? Nobody knew. What Kirk did know was that he'd perfectly manipulated events so that the three of them were completely dependent on him. He would need to be watched. It wouldn't do to perfect the generator only to meet the same fate as John Pretsin and be shot in the back of the head when it's least expected.

Even so, what he'd told her on Ibis Island was no less true. He didn't particularly care how his work was used. Which of them got their way would certainly be interesting, but he had no plans to take sides. Third Energy was going to change the world, and watching that happen was all he needed to be satisfied. Despite that, he knew he would rather burn and take the world with him than face defeat and humiliation ever again.


	10. Chapter 10

It had all been advertised as so simple, so necessary. Capturing Ibis Island, repelling the treacherous Borginians; all he had to do, they'd all said, was do his job and it would all be revealed. Well, it had been revealed, and now all he wanted to do was escape back to the life he'd had, but there was no going back. He might have been a poor fit for a raid team, but at least he was able to sleep at night in those days.

The atmosphere on Ibis Island could only be described as oppressive. After the first and only assault by the Borginian fleet they'd received the news from their own ships: Alvernia was under siege from within, and everyone from local dissidents to foreign rebels to traitorous officers had made their declaration of rebellion. He'd sat there with the rest of them, holding that island for reasons they didn't understand against enemies they couldn't see, dealing with poor supplies, searing heat, overcrowded halls, and increasingly tense relations between the senior officers and the rest of them.

That was difficult enough, but it was only after the state funeral for the fifty soldiers who'd been killed earlier than month that he'd realised why they were still there. Nobody had openly said anything at first, but it wasn't hard to see through the official explanations. Colonel Anton Royce and all his men, including all of them who'd never even met the man, had been all but declared traitors. Their exile to Ibis Island was intended to be permanent, and they were all to be punished for his actions. That didn't do much to improve morale, but there wasn't anything to be done about that.

Rick's job hadn't seemed nearly as urgent after that news, but he kept at it anyway just to keep himself focused. Regina had been declared an enemy of the state, and he hadn't even heard from Gail. It had kept him up on more nights than one, just trying to understand why anyone would target her so specifically. News was hard to come by on the island; the destruction of the communications area meant they had to receive on the fleet and then transmit that information to the facility's computers.

With Borginia refusing to attack again and nothing else to do but wait for Royce or Anders to give them some hope, most of the staff not actively defending the facility spent the days trying to distract themselves from their hopeless situation. Floor B3 was still the least populated despite its size, and it hadn't taken long for Rick to set up his makeshift home in the most remote part of the floor, one of the safest rooms in the entire facility and the place leading to the stored components for the Third Energy generator. Rick was one of the few to understand their importance, and he was careful to keep it that way, but after the first week Dylan had asked to join him claiming he couldn't stand the noise upstairs.

He felt someone shake his shoulder and looked away from the array of screens before him. His eyes ached as if he'd been awake for a week but, for all he knew, he really had been awake for a week. Time slipped away in the tunnels, and one day blended into the next without the slightest hint. Cold steel and sterile light were his surroundings; there was no easy way to differentiate between night and day other than by looking at a clock, though the vivid meaning of three in the morning or five in the afternoon seemed less so the longer he stayed underground. How Edward Kirk managed years on the island without going insane was beyond his knowledge.

"Did you hear a single word of what I just said?" a frustrated voice said to his left. Dylan was standing there in his full armour, a rifle strapped to his back.

"Uh, sorry about that. I was a bit…"

Dylan waved his excuses off. "Forget it. I'm needed on the first floor for a while, but you seem pretty out of it. You want me to send someone down?"

Rick smiled at that, but it was a faint smile. "No, I'll be fine. I might go see how our guest is doing."

"What you need to do is sleep, but it's your life. Just don't let her take advantage of you while you're like this."

Rick nodded at the computer screen as the door closed with a gentle thud behind the other man. The woman he'd captured in the attack was the only diversion left to him. They'd captured three saboteurs, and Rick had been given the task of interrogating the one who'd nearly killed him. He wasn't easy to scare, but memories of that frenzied attack in the communications room filled his head at the slightest opportunity. He'd never been closer to dying.

He turned off the entire array of screens. After a month of working he'd done just about all he could with the facility's security systems; lately his work on the system had mostly been done as a habit, something to keep his mind occupied. He'd installed an auto-alarm that tracked the entire security system and notified him of any intrusions, but even that was done from boredom.

The transport hall outside the special weapon storage area was deserted as usual, but he heard movement in the U-shaped storage corridor next to the rooms he'd chosen to live in. It was the natural choice of location for a prison: a small dead end of a room only accessible through a laser shutter. She had privacy behind the back wall and they could pass meals and supplies through the shutter, at least if they were small enough. It occurred to him early on that a facility full of despairing soldiers ought to be kept away from a vulnerable enemy prisoner, especially an attractive woman who'd killed several of their most respected comrades. He'd seen what desperation could make men do more than once while part of Gail's team.

"Hey, Rick, you're not leaving too?" a voice called from behind the shutters.

He hesitated as he always did and walked over to the shutter. She was sitting on a box just behind the shutter as usual, long black hair hiding her expression. Rick wasn't suited to be a jailer and they'd both figured it out within the first week. He'd never believed intimidation or violence would get anything other than lies and hate from someone like her away; fortunately Dylan agreed with his soft methods. After a month the pretence had all but dropped entirely.

"No," he answered. He'd intended to go upstairs, or so he'd told himself, but he always ended up sitting with Dylan and this woman for hours. After Royce's arrival and the news that came with it their identities as military officials seemed irrelevant.

"Good. You ever been in a cell? You might not have tortured me, but the boredom's doing that for you," she said, leaning forward with her head resting in the palm of her hand.

"I've been in a cell for a long time," he replied, voice soft as if he were speaking to himself.

She stared, but his eyes were fixed on the shelving behind her head. What did it even matter if he wasn't treating his role as interrogator seriously? If he'd been lied to his entire life, why should he treat the Borginians are enemies? They were in the same position as he was.

"I suppose you have," she replied, leaving it at that. Rick collapsed into one of two chairs just outside the shutters and leaned his head back against the cold steel wall.

He knew her name, or at least she said it was Melissa Weaver. Lived in a city on the eastern coast of Borginia and was only a year younger than Rick. There was no real reason to believe any of that, but perhaps Rick wasn't his real name either. Sometimes it was hard to remember just who you were. He knew her job description because it was almost identical to his own. He had a fairly solid grasp on her personality and motives. None of that was reliable, but that wasn't too important. None of his friends had ever been entirely honest about themselves, so why should he expect any more from his enemies?

More important was her knowledge of Borginia. Most of the information Rick knew concerning their rival nation was little more than propaganda, but she could speak of her home for hours on end. It was an effective way to ease the tension, anyway. The technology and building techniques used in the research facility were a great deal more impressive than the stone and brick favoured in Alvernia, and she claimed that was becoming the standard for Borginia.

"You think you're going to die here, don't you?" Melissa asked, referencing their hopeless situation. Rick hadn't bothered hiding it, but he still wouldn't look at her. Reminded him too much of himself, and of Regina. It always took him a few minutes to get over that.

He shrugged. "Either we wait here and die or we attack and die. You'll probably be fine if Borginia ever bothers to attack."

Melissa snorted in derision. "Yeah, they make it anywhere near here and I'll get a bullet to the head. I know how it works."

Rick's fist clenched. "I'm not going to let that happen."

She laughed, and he heard the mockery and ignored it. "You don't make any sense, you know that? I was going to kill you, but don't think it would have bothered me to do it. What's it to you if some meathead shoots me?"

"You don't deserve to die and I'm sick of seeing people killed for nothing when I could have done saved them. What you'd do in my place is irrelevant."

"You're a real hero, huh? Well, if you've got a point to prove I won't stop you," she said, rising to her feet and pacing the small entrance. "You sure I can't get a jacket? Even some shoes would be nice if you won't turn the air conditioning off. I'll be less likely to try and escape again if my feet aren't frozen."

"At least you've got somewhere to escape to. And I'll see what I can do about the clothes, but they don't want me giving you _anything_. You're a security risk. Maybe they think you'll hang yourself, I don't really know." He was beginning to feel more like himself. Computers were his life's work, but he'd always needed the company of people. Gail used to consider it a weakness, but they'd rarely agreed on anything. Even so, he knew he was too harsh on Gail. Despite their differences, the older man rarely stopped him doing what he thought was right.

"_I'm_ a security risk? I've been meaning to ask, what happened to the others you captured in that raid? There had to be more than just me. Did _they_ hang themselves?"

He couldn't bring himself to answer. Low supplies and a lack of useability, not to mention a lack of space, had given Lieutenant Colonel Anders all the justification needed to execute them, though officially they'd died while fighting. The other two saboteurs had been sent to the fleet weeks before, and that was the last he'd heard of them.

"Yeah, I figured as much. I'm the only one left?"

He nodded. Why bother denying it?

She sat back down with a dejected sigh. "You intervened to keep me alive? Why bother? Still, thanks for trying. I'll try to return the favour if they ever capture you. And if I'm not dead before then. Not much help, is it?"

Rick couldn't quite laugh, but he managed a smile. He finally realised why he'd spent so much time down here. Her mannerisms, her personality, both reminded him of his time in the academy with Regina. An escape to the past was just what he needed.

And just like with Regina, it was a façade that could vanish in an instant. She ran a hand through her hair, staring at the wall behind Rick. "You know, we all knew the risks, but never really believed we'd ever die. There were five of us, and now it's just me," Melissa murmured, almost as if she couldn't believe it was true.

Rick understood all too well. "There were five of us, and now it's just me," he repeated.

She knew what he was, but he'd never admitted that he was the last of the team. Tom and Cooper were long dead, Regina a fugitive, and Gail… well, he didn't know what to make of Gail. They could take care of themselves, at least. He'd always envied how comfortable they were with being alone.

"What would Borginia have done?"

That confused her, at least for a moment, but the moment of vulnerability had vanished as if it had never been there. "With the prisoners, you mean? Standard policy is to keep them and trade for our own. Not that we get in half as many wars as you do. I might have tried to kill you, but you weren't a prisoner, and that other guy with the really grey eyes nearly stuck a knife into my stomach before you showed up. What happened to him anyway?"

It was a question he'd often considered, but there was no way to know. Major Harper had spent two days in the hospital, but he was gone by the end of the first week that passed. They'd spoken briefly and Rick had given him a message for Regina if he saw her. He'd wanted to tell her so much more than he had, but entrusting a man he hardly knew with sensitive information was an absurd idea.

"He's probably dead. Nobody's heard from any of the officers left in the city for a month, including him," Rick said, slowly and deliberately. He could never be sure, but felt uncomfortable even hinting that Regina had probably been killed.

They both remained silent for a moment, concerned only with their own thoughts. The low hum of machinery and the laser shutters filled the otherwise silent passage, but their respite was soon interrupted by the grind of the transport shutter rolling up, filling the passage with a metallic echo.

Dylan ducked under the door and waved at them as he approached carrying a bag. The passage filled with the smell of spices and garlic, drawing Melissa's attention instantly and, despite his lethargy, Rick had to admit he needed to eat.

"You're back?" Rick asked as the other man took the other seat. "I didn't know it was time for lunch already."

Dylan glanced at the prisoner and the two of them seemed to be restraining laughter. "Rick, you know it just hit midnight, right? Lunch?"

"Are you sure about that? I could have sworn," he began, but he stopped protesting after Dylan threw his watch over. "Right. Guess I lost track of time," he admitted, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment.

"A bowl of lentil curry will fix that. That's all that's on the menu for the next three days," Dylan said, using both hands to carefully slide a container through the laser shutter without burning himself.

"Who's complaining? Your chef knows what spices are; how rare is that?" Melissa asked, sitting back on the makeshift seat with her share of their late dinner. Late night dinners on floor B3 had become a ritual for Rick and Dylan. Both men appreciated the company and the chance to escape the noise and mess on the floors above. They were also the only two allowed access to the prisoner, a request granted by the lieutenant colonel as a favour for their support. To keep it that way Rick had modified the laser shutters, disconnecting them from the main network and ensuring only he and Dylan could open them.

"How's it going upstairs?" Rick asked as they ate.

"Same as usual. Everybody's pissed off and nobody knows what to do. Anders and Royce have been locked up in that lecture hall all night, and you can imagine the rumours. You know half the men and plenty of the women in this facility have had their eyes on her for months."

"She's your boss, right? Or one of them. What's the appeal?" their guest asked. She'd finished half the curry before Rick had even touched his.

"Well," Dylan replied, listing points on his fingers, "she's powerful, attractive, ambitious, and dangerous. I think that's enough to get the fantasies started."

"She's also completely amoral. I don't think she cares for anything or anyone, and that includes us," Rick said, his recently acquired disdain for their leader obvious to both of them.

"How else do you think she made it to lieutenant colonel before thirty-five? She and Royce might hate central command for a lot of things, but not for sexism. Even General Hereson couldn't stop praising her up after the way she handled those territory disputes in the north."

Rick knew all too well how she'd handled them. He'd taken the opportunity to learn as much about his commanders as possible, and he wasn't fond of what he'd learned. "That's enough about her," he muttered, looking through the shutters. She looked back, the details of her face obscured by the bright red beams separating them.

"Is sexism a problem in Borginia?" he asked. Learning what differentiated their nations was fascinating, and he'd likely never have a better opportunity.

She shook her head. "Not really, no. At least not openly."

"What about poverty?"

"It exists, but not like you said it does where you come from. You're not left to starve if you can't work, anyway. Extreme wealth or poverty are pretty rare, I think."

"Rick, I'm too tired to get into politics again," Dylan interrupted. "We'd be better off trying to find a way out of here. Forget it all and start over somewhere new. Neither of us is on a wanted poster yet."

It was something they'd joked about more than once. In particular he'd thought of returning to Merestan and finding Regina. He owed her that much, especially if, as often occurred to him in his darkest moments, his prying into classified information and asking her to help was the excuse they'd used to condemn her.

"What would you do if you did leave?" Rick asked, looking at his friend's grave expression.

Inexplicably enough, Dylan laughed at that. "I don't have the first idea. My entire life I've been told what to do. Might be nice to have the freedom to find out, but what do I know about that? How about you?"

"I don't think I would leave. There's nothing for me out there."

Dylan stood up and stretched. He could never sit still for long. "So why stay? Why bother fighting for… what?"

Rick shrugged again, unwilling to answer. He didn't really have an answer. "And you?" he asked, looking through the bright red beams. "Why do you fight?"

Melissa spoke again, the bitterness in her voice startling them both. "Figures that none of you would even be able to guess. How about when the fighting started over the rights to the islands in the central sea? Your people wanted mining rights and to use them as a military outpost, but we wouldn't allow it."

"I was just a kid when that happened," Dylan objected. "They said your people were hostile from the start, refusing to even negotiate. One of our most respected diplomats was assassinated when he tried."

"How could we be hostile? Borginia's an island nation without even a fifth of the population of your country. We didn't even try to fight back, but it didn't matter to them. Even the suggestion of resistance was enough justification."

"Enough justification for what?"

Rick raised his hand, interrupting them both. He really was more exhausted than he'd ever been in his life. "I know what happened. Gail was there, and I saw it when I read his file." And it was true. After a particularly memorable show of callousness on a mission, Rick had stolen his file from the SORT servers to try and understand why he was so harsh.

Dylan looked between the two of them. "What are you saying, Rick?"

"We couldn't just invade without reason, but the rights to the islands were disputed. So they sent SORT teams to each island to kill and sabotage until they couldn't take it anymore. Before long the people rioted, blaming us for the murders despite their lack of proof," he replied, rubbing his eyes to avoid looking at either of them.

"And that's when they said we couldn't keep the peace, that we didn't have the ability to control land so far from our shores. They lined up every second person and shot them, and the rest were little better than slaves. We hadn't done anything, but it didn't matter," she continued, voice almost emotionless while she gazed into the steel wall.

Dylan fell back into his seat, face twisted into a grimace. "Only a monster would come up with such a plan."

"You are fortunate to still think that way," a quiet voice said from the right. A tall man stood just past the half-open door, one hand in the pocket of his jacket. His muscular frame was decidedly leaner than it had been when they'd first met and his expression was less sure, but it still conveyed an unmistakable air of authority. A woman stood behind, stern and silent.

Dylan rose to his feet immediately and threw a salute. Rick couldn't be bothered, so he remained in the seat.

"Rick, who is it?" Melissa asked, craning her head to see past the shutters and burning off a lock of hair in the process.

Anton Royce joined them by the shutter. "How should I answer that?" He looked at Dylan and hesitated, glancing back at the woman who'd followed him in. "There's no benefit in hiding it. I'm your monster, Lieutenant Morton."

"You can't be serious," Dylan said, taking a step back toward the shutter.

"I've rarely been more serious. I was there, and I'm as much to blame for that atrocity as any of the men who carried it out. Would you like me to describe the details? Your young friend can confirm their accuracy, I suspect."

"Don't bother. And you have the nerve to claim you're working to change the world for the better?" Rick asked, rising to his feet and looking at the man he'd once hoped felt as he did. His hand trembled at his side and the woman at the entrance stepped forward with her pistol raised.

"On the contrary, it is precisely because I have seen and done what I have that I understand why our society cannot be allowed to remain as it is." Royce replied, losing his authoritative tone for the first time.

"Remove your weapons," the woman ordered. Rick did so, placing his pistol on the floor, but Melissa's hand twisted itself through the shutter and snatched Dylan's handgun from its holster before pushing him back. She hissed in pain and Rick saw a burned patch of skin on her forearm.

Anders attempted to pull the Colonel away from the shutter, but he resisted and remained where he was.

"You were there. You know what we did. You have the right to kill me, but I'm only a symptom of the disease," he said, his pale blue eyes meeting her intense glare without flinching.

"I always pictured you as a monster, but you're not so frightening in person," she said, speaking as if only to herself. "Maybe it's worse that you're just a man." The pistol was halfway off the floor, but Anders was sure to kill her the moment she raised the gun.

"The worst monsters are men. Still, in my defence I was a young lieutenant at the time, and I didn't expect it to become what it did. I do vividly recall how _spontaneous_ it all was. None of us went in intending to massacre half the population, but once it started nobody raised their voice in protest. It operated like a well-oiled machine, not a collection of individuals. It always is."

"So what _did_ you expect, murderer?"

He thought about that for a moment. "At the time, very little. Soldiers do as they're told, yes? It was only after I'd stained myself with that atrocity and more that I realised it couldn't continue. Strange as it is, I'd hoped to use the power with which I'd been rewarded to implement those changes, power earned through more massacres than that."

Rick stared at him in a new light. "I don't know how you can go on if you sat back and let that happen."

"I confess, I did consider taking my own life more than once, but it seemed a waste of resources. If every man who despises our way of doing things kills himself, who's left to fight against it?"

"Drop the weapon, Borginian," Anders ordered, her voice even firmer than before.

She looked between the four of them, eyes wild and desperate. Royce waited silently, face completely calm. Dylan stood by the wall as if paralysed; he had so little experience with problems that he could do nothing to fix.

Rick turned around and looked at the miserable woman before him. "Killing an unarmed, repentant man makes you no better than he was." he said to her. "What do you think it's going to change?"

The look in her face as she held that gun, debating whether to raise it and shoot Royce even if it meant her death, would never him. Her hands shook for a moment, but she made her decision, throwing the weapon to the floor and falling back onto the seat with her head in her hands. It disgusted him that anyone could be forced into such a situation. Dylan reached under the last beam and dragged it back, his face red from embarrassment.

Royce's gaze shifted to Rick. "It's an ideal I've never been able to live by, but I do believe you're right."

"Now that the young lady has made her decision, one perhaps more merciful than I deserved," he continued, "I think it's time that I tried to live up to my reputation. I have a plan. But it's not going to work without her help." He pointed at Melissa, who stared back in disbelief.

"You're surprised? We're trapped between a Borginian fleet and Hereson's promise to kill us all should we attempt a return to Alvernia. Hereson will never reconsider his decision, and it seems all my friends in Merestan have been lined up and shot, or at the very best are hiding in some tunnel where they'll be of no use to anyone. Therefore we must turn to Borginia. For that I need to give them a reason to believe we are not the monsters they so clearly believe we are." He said it as if it was obvious, and Rick had to admit there weren't many alternatives.

"And what reason is that?" she asked, alternating between uncontrollable staring at the Colonel and averting his gaze entirely.

"Well, we're not really Alvernian soldiers anymore, are we? We're traitorous rebels who want to overthrow the system." He shrugged. "You've been well-treated by these two, I presume? The lieutenant colonel tells me they've been very protective, and you must realise there are _many_ soldiers who'd have handled your imprisonment in an entirely different manner, one not to your benefit. You two are perfect representatives of the culture I want to encourage," Royce said, clapping Dylan on the shoulder.

"When I asked them to interrogate her I didn't expect them to be quite so pleasant, but it does seem to have worked," Anders said.

"Of course it has. Torture and cruelty doesn't get you honesty and cooperation, and those are what we need. I thought we agreed your methods would soften? You're not on the northern border anymore."

Anders' blank face twitched as if she was annoyed, but she said nothing.

"Why should I lift a finger to help you?" Melissa asked, shooting a filthy look at Anders. Rick could hardly blame her there; for all Royce's talk, his choice of second-in-command was inexplicable.

"If you could convince them to meet with me, I may be able to negotiate an alliance against Alvernian command. Without your support, I suppose we'll all have to wait here until starvation or bullets finish us off. It's entirely up to you." Royce sat down in Dylan's abandoned seat, crossed his legs, and waited.

It didn't take much more than that. She agreed to speak to the fleet commander on his behalf and arrange a meeting at the very least. Rick wasn't particularly surprised. None of them had much hope of leaving alive without the help of that fleet, and that included her.

After her agreement to work with him, at least on that, Royce stood back up. He'd got what he wanted, clearly. "I'll return tomorrow once some of the details have been arranged. I apologise for this, but you'll have to remain a prisoner officially. There are likely several spies who would notice your freedom, and that could ruin everything." He turned away and ducked his head under the exit shutter before turning back. "Oh, and I appreciate that you didn't shoot me. Morton, could I have a word?"

Dylan holstered his stolen pistol, met Rick's eyes and shrugged as he left to follow Royce.

He stood at the entrance with Anders and watched them leave. Being alone with her always made him uncomfortable. "This all comes down to her," Anders said, her cold gaze focused directed on Rick. She spoke softly enough that only he could hear. "And you."

"What do you mean _me_?" Rick asked in a whisper. "I'm just the tech guy, nothing more."

"Don't pretend you don't understand me. You haven't spent a month with this girl for nothing. She won't admit it, but she considers you a friend. Anybody in her position would cling onto someone like you for support, and so she has. Do not let that go to waste," Anders said. She left the same way Royce and Dylan did without another word.

Rick stood for some time after they left, but the exhaustion caught up and he sank down against the cold wall. It wasn't much, but for the first time in a month he saw the slightest reason for hope. He'd always wished he could do something to change his country, to fix the rot that infested everything from its leaders to its culture. Now he'd been given the chance and he didn't know if he could. It'd always been much cleaner in his dreams, much less difficult to determine who was right and what had to be done.

Before long true tiredness set in and he found himself struggling to stay awake. It was a hopeless struggle, but he managed to stumble back into the storage room before collapsing on his makeshift bed under the cool blue light.


	11. Chapter 11

It was a moment any soldier would have anticipated with eagerness and pride, but as he waited in the luxurious reception area, eyes fixed on the solid mahogany door behind the desk, Gail found neither emotion accurately described his thoughts.

When he'd been informed of his commanding officer's treachery there was only one thing he could have done. Anton Royce had been overseeing his operations for over a decade, and he'd considered the man as close to a friend as he had among the military.

It wasn't even the betrayal that stung the most, but the realisation that an entire rebellion had grown under his watch. Royce, half his officers, and a great number of ordinary soldiers had all conspired to overthrow the legitimate authorities, and _he_ hadn't suspected a thing. To pride yourself on professionalism and not have seen that coming? The signs had been there for a long time and he'd missed them all.

No, he considered, perhaps that wasn't the problem. Royce was a high ranking officer, popular with the public, and renowned for his ability to scheme, something Gail had often seen in person. Why should he accept responsibility for a man like that? It was _their_ treachery that kept him awake at night.

When he was promoted to the position of squad leader he'd was given the task of choosing and training his own recruits, a favour granted in recognition of his own ability. Tom was chosen for his skills as an infiltrator and those skills were honed by Gail's training. He and Cooper died in the field from a threat nobody could have anticipated, but there was nothing shameful in that. Nobody went into espionage expecting to live a long life, even if they never would admit it.

Rick was easily the most talented of the recruits, at least academically. His abilities with security systems exceeded those of half his instructors the day he arrived, and Gail had chosen him despite knowing they would never be close. As countless situations had proven since, his intuition was completely accurate. No technological barrier was insurmountable for the young prodigy and, indeed, he and Gail could barely stand to be in the same room. He'd allowed Rick to indulge his sense of ethics as much as he could despite that. But even that wasn't the problem. Rick had been caught in the middle of his commander's treachery; even if he privately thought the young officer would willingly rebel if given the opportunity, it was a situation that had been forced on him.

No, Rick's position was understandable. It was rational, it flowed from events beyond his control and was influenced by his ethics. She was the reason he couldn't rest. Regina had been a point of personal pride for him. She'd taken any challenge he had to offer without complaint; not only that, but she'd excelled at those challenges to a degree he hadn't seen since his own youth. In the earliest days she'd been confronted by a system and by peers who refused to believe a woman could excel at their work, but one by one she'd bested and humiliated all of them. He'd stood back and watched, and what he saw surprised him.

It was because of her that he adopted the impersonal approach to command that he did. She was capable enough and intelligent enough to work independently by his side, and not as a subordinate who needed constant supervision. She was one of the only people he'd known who ever came close to understanding who he was. It was intuitive. She'd also understood that they were there to complete an objective, and that their own objections were irrelevant. That there was no room for argument, no freedom to judge your orders. Or so he'd thought. Yet unlike with Rick, there was little doubt remaining that she was anything but a traitor.

The door opened with a soft creak of its golden hinges and a redheaded man left, nodding at Gail as he passed the guards standing by the exit.

"General Hereson will see you now," the receptionist said, standing at the side of the door. He was unarmed; he'd offered the handgun he usually carried to the guards at the entrance to the seventh floor, but they still checked for concealed weapons. Perfectly understandable, of course. It's what he'd have done in their place.

Gail pushed past her and entered the office. Its high walls were covered in bookshelves, the floor made of the finest polished floorboards he'd ever seen, and the lighting completely natural, the afternoon sun shining through two curved windows on the eastern side of the room. An ornately carved desk stood at far end, but its owner was seated on a leather couch in the centre of the room. Such extravagance was a rare sight in Merestan, and he couldn't help but take in every detail as he approached the centre of the room.

"I'm glad you decided to accept my invitation," the couch's occupant said, rising to his feet and holding his hand out to shake Gail's before gesturing at another couch across from his. A small table lay between the two with a tray carrying a flagon of whiskey and two glasses set upon it.

Gail took the offered seat, already disoriented by the excessive familiarity being shown by the older man. An invitation from a man with Hereson's power was never optional, regardless of how it was worded.

Neither of them spoke for a brief moment. James Hereson was difficult to judge from his appearance. He was an older man, nearly sixty, and it showed. His hair and moustache were all but completely grey, but his eyes were bright and focused, and Gail had the distinct impression every part of him was being evaluated and judged in a brief few seconds.

Hereson poured them both a glass of whiskey. "Most men, I find, are most responsive after I establish some degree of friendship between us. Not much, you understand, but just enough to get the right response. You are not one of those men, and I won't insult you by wasting your time in that manner."

Gail tried, but there was no response to that. Even so, some instinct in the back of his head was warning him that the tactic had simply been adjusted. Worse, he realised the man had judged him well to start with blunt honesty whether it was genuine or not.

"I would like you to briefly tell me your thoughts on our security situation from your perspective as an espionage officer."

Professional discussions were the easiest discussions. He almost sighed in relief, especially because he already had the answers to that request. "There are three problems that need to be resolved." He held up a gloved hand. "The first is Royce. Your plan to exile him and trap him between us and Borginia worked, but he's still alive and commands several thousand experienced soldiers. A man like that isn't going to give up easily, and if he does escape and openly rebel he could rally more support while we're weak."

"He won't escape, I assure you. That won't be your concern in any case. The other two?"

"The second is the power vacuum left by their absence. Many of the most skilled and experienced officers in the west have betrayed us, and once the rest realise they have the opportunity to replace them it could get ugly. Infighting is the last thing we need right now."

Hereson refilled his glass. "You're right, of course, and steps will be taken to remedy that problem. At least for now we can keep the upcoming vacancies quiet. Many of Royce's staff didn't leave for Ibis Island with him, did you know?"

"They may be able to help find the others," Gail suggested, but Hereson waved that idea down. "My thought was that they'd stayed here to help _him_, or at least some of them. They've all been executed in any case. Why take the risk?"

He couldn't say he was surprised. "The final problem comes from within," Gail continued. "Considering all our information on the insurgencies in this city came from Anton Royce's office, you need to consider that large portions of it have been altered to suit his needs. What is clear is that there are well-funded and heavily-armed groups spread throughout both this city and the surrounding areas. Expect more activity from them when Royce's betrayal goes public."

"It's the logical thing to suggest, but I don't believe Royce was lying when he revealed Borginia was funding the largest of these groups." Hereson smiled and set his empty glass down. "Even if he was lying, it's far too advantageous a lie to contradict. The people need an enemy, and Borginia has always been a useful scapegoat. Turn their attention out over the western sea and they'll forget their enemies here." He paused and met Gail's eyes. "But I forgot who I was speaking to. There's no need to explain that to you, is there?"

Gail remained silent. He'd learned early in his career never to take the bait.

Hereson sighed. "Your analysis of the situation was excellent, as I'd expected, but you must realise you've forgotten a rather important detail."

There was no point in pretending he didn't know what the man was referring to. "You're referring to the eight traitors still in the city."

"I'll let you in on a secret. Only four of those people were important; the other four are there to divert attention. Most of them were already dead when we made the story public."

"And you think these four are threatening enough to warrant your personal attention?" He already knew the answer.

"I don't have the time to make that assessment," Hereson replied, rising to his feet. "Which he why you're here," he said as he walked toward the desk at the back. The older man gestured at Gail to join him.

"Ordinarily I wouldn't be concerned, but something about these people isn't right. It's like a puzzle except the pieces just don't fit together. You must understand my concerns," he continued, sitting in the chair behind the desk.

Gail had thought the exact same thing more than once, but his only concern had been Regina. That last meeting during the funeral procession had remained in his memory as vividly as if it'd happened the day before. Nothing Dmitri Mirzin or Andrea Kesler or any of the other near faceless names on that list had done could come close to bothering him the way she did. Nothing had been heard from them in weeks in any case.

"You're referring to the day of the ceremony," Gail stated, meeting the senior officer's gaze without a hint of emotion.

"We'd planned to take your protégé in for questioning, as you knew at the time, but after speaking with you she disappeared entirely. Never did seem quite right, but don't be alarmed. I wouldn't doubt your loyalty." The older man's knowing smile unnerved him.

"As you agreed with my assistant the day before, she'd be given the chance to renounce any allegiance to Royce or his mutinous brigade. We don't usually offer pardons so easily, but she hadn't been included in his inner circle yet and you'd earned a favour or two. Instead she uses her considerable skills honed under your command to hunt down and butcher no less than four people, though we had hoped the fourth would turn up alive."

"Why are you bringing this up now, sir?"

Hereson leaned across the desk. "Because we found John Pretsin. They say it wasn't easy to identify him after a few weeks of decomposing, but he'd been shot in the back of the head just like the others."

Gail tried to respond but was stopped before he could even open his mouth. "Somehow she went from obliviously unaware to knowing both what had happened and who needed to die within the space of an hour. We must assume the two men seen with her are responsible, but nobody has the first idea who they might be."

"What do you need me to do?" That was why he was there, surely. He'd been to more unofficial briefings than official, and this was certainly one of them.

"I need you to find this woman. I need you to find all of these people and either bring them in or kill them. If your own abilities are an indicator then the damage she could potentially do is incalculable. Better protected men than me have had their throats slit while they sleep."

He drew on all his experience and pushed the emotions that came to the side where they could do no harm. "And the others?"

"Mirzin and Kesler need to die. Between them they could arrange any number of difficulties for us, and Kesler is a skilled infantry commander. My analysts tell me Mirzin was likely injured and forced into hiding, so don't waste the opportunity to get rid of him. Also, this is tentative but the persistent reports of men in grey associated with these people lead me to believe they're not alone. The fourth man was captured and killed two weeks ago, but he knew nothing of the others. Concentrate on these three and their associates, particularly the two with her on the day of Pretsin's death."

"Understood. I'll need access to more information than I currently have," Gail began before being cut off again.

"You'll have it. Information, funding, and authority. I'm placing you at the head of your own taskforce, so feel free to use whatever methods you see fit. Recruit whoever you need, break the law if you must. All I care about are the results, you understand? My assistant will set things up; all you need to do is investigate."

And that was how he came to find himself hunched over a desk in the same hotel Regina had been staying at before her betrayal. He'd chosen the location because, as far as he could tell, her activity had been centred in the western coast district, and that was the first place he would investigate. Subtlety had been another priority, but the redheaded man across from him had ruined any hope of keeping his connection to the government a secret.

It seemed as if every second person they met recognised Hereson's assistant for who he was. Not surprising when his face was on every news source making official statements every second day. Richard Morrent the celebrity was a nuisance he had little choice but to accept. He also knew Morrent was watching him on Hereson's behalf, but he didn't take it personally.

"So you're sure you don't want anyone else? I don't know where the money's coming from, but the budget for this operation is ridiculous." Richard asked, raising an eyebrow. He picked up a stack of personnel files and shook them.

Gail shook his head. "I don't need anyone else. If I do, I'll let you know."

"Suit yourself. You plan to find all these people alone?" he asked, lighting his third cigarette and earning a look of scorn from Gail.

"They're all connected. Find one, use them to find the rest. Start with the obvious target and lure them out."

"And who's the obvious target?"

"That's what I need to find out." He pointed at a map of the known hideouts and crime scenes associated with the targets. "The best lead we have right now is the murder of John Pretsin."

Richard shrugged, clearly not convinced. "It's been a month. The guy was informing on them; they found out and," he slammed his hand on the desk for dramatic effect, "made sure he wasn't going to try that again."

Gail sighed. Regina would have understood without the explanation. Win or lose, there'd be no pleasure in this assignment. "Sloppy analysis. Pretsin met with the general's secretary to hand over the last in a series of documents. Pretsin, the secretary, both her security guards, and the man's wife. All of them were killed and the package was stolen."

"And why are these documents so important? You know he was also supposed to kill that scientist Royce was hiding, that's if he wasn't dead anyway. All the general wanted was proof and the deal was done."

Without knowing it he'd touched on what concerned Gail most. He was one of the few to know what Kirk had been working on, and what it could do. The evidence suggested he'd been buried alive deep under the foundry Royce had been using as a base. He recalled what Regina had told him, but she hadn't specified whether she and Mirzin had escaped _with_ Kirk or whether he'd been left inside.

Gail also knew Regina wouldn't have killed two innocent women just because they'd seen her face. Not when her cover had already been blown. The secretary knew whatever they were trying to hide, but the wife? He looked out the window at the busy street below. Could it be that the men she was with were trying to hide their identities? They would have to recognisable if that were the case. It seemed unlikely, but Kirk himself may have been one of the two, though the witness report claimed the man who may have been Kirk had black hair.

The only way to find out would be to find and interrogate either of them. Still, he knew Regina, and he knew she wouldn't have left Kirk to be captured if she was there to prevent it. If that was the case, was she _helping_ him? After Ibis Island it almost seemed too ridiculous an idea to consider, but the evidence he had suggested it was a real possibility.

"Pretsin was killed only a short time after the others, correct?"

Morrent nodded, reaching to light a fourth cigarette before Gail stopped him. "That means Regina and her new friends must have went directly from his apartment to the warehouse where we found the corpse."

"So?"

"The deal was done when he proved Kirk was dead. He went directly to that warehouse after the meeting with Hereson's secretary. Kirk was likely hiding there, and that could put quite a bit of what we know about these murders in a different light. Was Kirk in the warehouse, or was he one of the two men? Get the car; we need to examine both locations."

"You know I've got work to do other than this, right?" Richard asked. Gail stared at him for a moment and left without a word. They were at the warehouse within twenty minutes. Two armed officials patrolled the site, but Gail's new authority made it much easier to cut through the bureaucracy.

"It's an ordinary warehouse, sir, except for the two shipping containers at the back. The second from the back wall is there to conceal a stairway leading to a basement floor," the woman in charge of security told him as he entered the building, pointing at a crimson container through the gloomy lighting.

As she said, the container opened onto the back wall and a sloping tunnel leading underground. The smell as he entered the basement was one of the most putrid things he'd ever had the misfortune to encounter. The scent of decaying flesh was never particularly pleasant, but this was so foul he could almost feel it attaching itself to his clothes and skin. Morrent jumped back, covering his face with his sleeve and gagging. Gail had no time for drama, so he dragged the assistant past the corpse and used all his willpower not to show any signs that the stench was having a similar effect on him.

Coagulated blood formed a trail from the corpse to a dried pool on the floor where the stairs ended. They emerged in a cramped room, brightly lit and painted in the most absurd baby-blue. A small television lay on a table in the centre of the room with enough seats for four people, notable because a small wooden chair had been dragged over to make more room. An open cupboard, prominent map of Merestan, and a small collection of books were the only other notable items that he saw.

Richard looked at the shabby books with a sneer while Gail examined the couch. The cushion on the left side was rough and stained. Someone had been bleeding onto it, but it wasn't John Pretsin. He looked over his shoulder at the assistant and pointed at the cushion. "Have you checked this for physical evidence? Blood, hair, skin?"

"Yeah, you think they'd let us in here before that was done? Results should be in," he paused to think, "Well, it depends on how 'urgent' you make the labs think it is,

"This is for an investigation ordered by the highest ranking man in the city." Was Morrent deliberately trying to waste his time?

"Right. Don't worry, I'll handle it. They just need a bit of financial lubrication, you know? Like I said, the budget can handle it." Richard smiled, assuring him again that it was how things were done. How Hereson put up with that kind of corruption he'd never know.

The complex was surprisingly small. Only a few rooms, most of which were set up for medical purposes, were large enough to be noteworthy. That proved to him that this was where the survivors from the foundry had to have been taken. No personal items were present, but they may simply have been taken when the residents left. Regina would never have left such obvious evidence.

"I'm done. Send the results of the analysis directly to me, no matter the time, understood? We'll check Pretsin's apartment next."

Morrent looked ready to protest, but he was learning. Within ten minutes they'd parked his state issued car by the side of a five storey apartment building. The cracked and broken bricks around the base of the complex were the first of many indicators that John Pretsin had been struggling financially for a long time. "Now you understand why he took the general's offer," Richard said, brushing his hand over the dusty window outside the lobby.

Gail's hand was on the door handle, but he stopped and looked at the surrounding street before entering. A similar building with an additional two stories stood directly across from the apartments, though most of the properties further down the street were commercial, not residential. "The report said the driver of the secretary's car was shot in the head, right?"

"Yeah. No way to prove it, but the sniper had to be either in that building," Richard said, pointing at the larger complex, "or at least on the rooftop. Could we hurry this up? I've still got to prepare for this big address tomorrow night. They're executing some rebels or something. Fourth floor, apartment B."

The inside of the lobby was even less inspiring than the outside. It was a safe bet that the reception desk hadn't been manned for years, the wallpaper was peeling, and he'd have been more willing to fight all the targets he was chasing at once than risk a ride in the elevator.

But Gail was surprised by how well maintained the fourth floor was compared to those below. Someone had taken the time to keep the hall clean and the wallpaper was fresh. There were even healthy plants in the corners. He knocked on the door, but would've been surprised if anyone answered. More likely than not the place was abandoned. People never liked to live in a place that had seen the violence Pretsin's home had.

"Right. They never gave me the key to this place. You think the manager's around here?" Richard asked, looking around at the other doors.

No time for that nonsense; there was always a more direct solution. The door caved in with a loud bang and collapsed on the floor of a once pristine living room. "Well, that's one way to open a door. I'm going to have to hire an assistant, I swear," Richard muttered as they stepped into the room. The first thing he noticed was the stained carpet by the window. He recalled the photographs taken of the secretary's corpse, face almost unrecognisable. Morrent's eyes darted around the room focusing on anything other than the window.

"Something wrong?"

"I'm just not used to this kind of thing. Executing four people like it was nothing," Richard replied with an evasive shrug. He sat in one of the dining table seats and pulled an apple from a ceramic bowl.

"Did you know her?" Gail asked as he looked through a stack of paperwork on the table.

"Huh? I'm the general's personal assistant, she was his secretary. Of course I knew her."

"That's not what I was asking."

"I don't see how that's even remotely relevant," Richard replied, and Gail could hear the irritation in his voice.

"Then you're not paying attention." He took the seat across from the increasingly nervous man. "Am I right in saying only Hereson, his secretary, you, and Pretsin himself were aware of this little deal?"

"Yeah. Nobody else needed to know. What's this even about?"

Was he being this difficult for a reason, Gail wondered? "Regina didn't find out about this by herself. She went to the hotel we're working from knowing none of it, and when she left she knew it all. Someone gave the deal away, and the general's not going to ruin his own plan, is he? So if I believe that you didn't tell anyone, and for the moment I do, that means this woman or Pretsin told somebody else. That somebody came back and did this, and they convinced her to come with them," he finished, waving at the two stained patches of carpet.

"Yeah, I think I see what you mean. They kidnapped his wife to make her talk, but how did they know who to target?"

"Right. And nobody with his family's future on the line is going to admit that he's betrayed his colleagues and is going to assassinate a scientist who's already supposed to be dead, especially not someone with no social life outside work."

He leaned in closer as if he was going to reveal a secret. "So now you know why I need to know just how close you two were. Close enough to give me a list of her friends?"

Richard remained silent for a long moment, eyes glancing over at the window as if he were drawn to it. "Look, I know it's not allowed, but we had a bit of a _thing_, you know?"

"Romantic relationship?" He'd hoped for something like that. Hereson's assistant was charismatic and attractive; more importantly, he was unattached.

"Not quite romantic, we weren't going to push the rules that far, but we spent some time together." He avoided Gail's eyes and hastened to change the subject. "Anyway, she was kind of quiet. Worked a lot, didn't have many friends. Two childhood friends I met and not many others."

"Who are the others?"

"Her best friend's husband, he runs a bar in the south, and some guy she said she dated once. Mike, maybe. Or just Michael. Wouldn't talk about him much anyway, not that I usually ask about that kind of thing."

Gail stared at the fruit bowl, deep in thought. It wasn't much to go on. The childhood friends were unlikely suspects, but he'd have them looked into anyway. The husband with a bar in the south didn't seem particularly suspicious; none of the targets had ever been seen in that part of the city. The ex-boyfriend wasn't likely to turn up results either, but if those were her only four friends there was a chance.

"I want files on all of them by tonight, particularly the ex-boyfriend. And have this place searched. Everything from the walls to under the carpet; we need to know if any documents are still hidden here. Regina wouldn't have had time to conduct a thorough search before the police arrived."

Richard sank into his chair with a groan. "If you worked your friend this hard it's no wonder she gave it up to go rebel. Look, I'll find someone to do this administrative stuff for you, alright? Anything else?"

Gail's gaze hadn't moved. "Yeah, there is something else." He held up an apple from the bowl. "Notice anything?"

"Looks pretty good." And indeed it did. "Wait. I get it. Who's been putting fresh fruit here if nobody's been home for a month?"

"I don't know, something you neglected to mention? That's becoming a habit already, isn't it?" Gail stood up and looked back into the hall outside. A young woman stood at the top of the stairs, almost frozen on the spot. He wasn't a fool; there was only one person it could be, but the urge to break something from frustration was becoming quite strong. Not at all how he'd hoped to handle this meeting.

Morrent jumped out of his seat. "I swear, I had no idea she still lived here. Who'd stay in a house where this happened?" he murmured animatedly into Gail's ear, waving at the stained carpet.

The girl turned as if to run, but her gaze fixed on Morrent and she reconsidered, fear evidently turning to confusion. Gail remained still, perfectly aware the slightest movement could give her reason to flee. In his youth he'd once spent a month trying to look less intimidating, but his efforts weren't rewarded. The perpetual scowl was there to stay.

Confusion was turning to anger as she cautiously approached, he could tell. "I know you," she cried, pointing an accusing finger at his red-haired companion. "You'd better have a good explanation for this. How do you think I'm going to get this fixed?" The anger was retreating, replaced by desperation and despair. Observing people's emotions usually told him how to best approach a situation, but he'd spent most of his career in the field, not breaking into young girls' apartments.

Richard entered damage control mode, but he seemed too flustered to make it work. "This is a complete misunderstanding, we had no idea you still lived here," he said, looking at the door as if debating whether he could fix it. Was there anything he could actually do right, Gail wondered.

"Is that so? Then you'll have no objections to buying me a new door. Now what do you want this time, Morrent?" She was trying not to be threatened by their presence, Gail knew, but he also knew it was an act. She'd stopped in the hall and was positioned to run if necessary. Smart move, really. She wouldn't be the first or the last relative of a disgraced officer to face an accidental death.

Gail moved forward, deliberately keeping his hands away from the weapons at his hip. "You must be John Pretsin's daughter. We're investigating your father's death."

She remained still for a moment, likely debating whether to run. It wasn't much of a choice. Her posture slumped and she stepped through the door. Not a great resemblance to her father, all he considered. Angular face, long black hair, and an expression that almost seemed mocking even when she wasn't looking at anything in particular. She dumped a heavy backpack next to the table.

"Yes, I'm Miranda Pretsin. Only child of two murdered parents." She pulled the end chair of the dining table out with her foot and collapsed into it, gaze shifting from the general's assistant to Gail. "Feel free to make yourselves at home. Well, you've already done that. What do you want, exactly? If you were going to kill me you'd have done it by now, but I won't mind too much if you change your mind."

He sat back down but remained silent. He knew the victim had a daughter, but she'd been on the other side of the city when her parents were murdered and hadn't stood out as being particularly important.

"Hold on," Miranda said, looking back at Gail as if alarmed. "Everyone knows who killed my parents. Her face has been on the news for a month, she's one of the most wanted terrorists in the city. So what's someone like you," she continued, waving at Gail, "doing looking around this dump?"

Was there a risk in being honest? He didn't think so. If the same people who'd executed her parents found out he was trying to find them they might just come directly to him. "This woman," he began, jaw clenching as he said it, "is only one of a larger group. My job is to find this group and destroy it. The best lead we have is your father's death."

"Is that so? I've spent a lot of time looking at her face, wondering what they could possibly have done to make her do that. One of my father's colleagues, someone he would have trusted. What do they want, this group?"

And that was the question, wasn't it? What did he really know? Regina, the two men she'd been seen with, Dmitri Mirzin. It all pointed to Royce. Mirzin was his man and Pretsin had betrayed the colonel. But if _he_ was there? Edward Kirk had been on his mind for weeks. He had no loyalty for anyone or anything other than himself, and he had a well-developed distaste for Royce and his methods. What could it mean if he was there?

"Their motivations are unclear. Once we have a better idea of who's in this group and what they've been doing in the last month we can try to answer that question."

"Right. I get it, top secret."

"We'll be sending a team in to look for hidden documents. I'll have Morrent tell you when in advance; try to be out when they arrive."

"That's fine. I doubt I'll be here much longer anyway. Can't afford the bills, can't stand to be in here a minute longer than I have to."

That was a common story, Gail knew. One of the advantages of being in the military was the freedom to forget about finances. Richard seemed concerned, however.

"You mean you didn't get the money your father arranged for?" he asked, looking at her as if he didn't understand.

"Money? My father was a nice guy, but he never had any money. I'll sell this place and try to live off that for a while. Don't know where I'll be, so ask your questions while you can." Her tone was completely flat. Gail's impression was that even if she had received the money she wouldn't have cared.

"So you don't know why your dad was killed? He arranged a deal to get out of the military with enough money to last a lifetime, if only he could complete," Richard said, but Gail cut him off. "Enough, Morrent. We're not authorised to share that information."

"Come on, this is the guy's daughter. He died for us and she's left in poverty?"

"_Enough._ We'll deal with it later," he snapped, leaving no room for argument. Miranda Pretsin barely seemed to be listening, but he saw enough hints of a reaction in her face to disprove that idea.

"Is there anything at all about your father's behaviour or speech in the days before he died that gave you cause for concern?" It was unlikely, he knew, but worth trying. His original idea, investigating those close to the secretary, seemed the most likely to yield results.

"He didn't speak about work much, you have to understand," she replied. "The days before he died were especially quiet. Didn't sleep, almost seemed to be crying sometimes. He kept looking through these personnel files from the office." And now she seemed close to tears. "The night before he looked through them for four hours, just over and over. I asked why and he said he had important work to do and there was something he needed to understand."

Richard's calm, carefree manner had finally given way. The intense seriousness of the man responsible for sharing the general's reports with the public had appeared. His gaze met Gail's and they both looked back at the girl. "And did you keep these files?"

And she stood without a word and pulled an envelope from the backpack by her foot. "After he died I looked at these and thought I understood, but what would I really know? I kept them with me just in case they were important and someone broke in looking for them."

Gail took the envelope and pulled a thin stack of documents from it. As she said, it was a collection of personnel files, almost identical to a list of officers under Royce's command. Almost was the keyword. Anton Royce, Eliza Anders and Dmitri Mirzin were the first three. A small '1' had been scribbled in the corner of each photograph, though Mirzin's also had a 'k' under the number and Anders had an 'I' Andrea Kesler, Rick, Regina, and his own file were next along with several other officers he didn't know: Levin, Harper, Morton, Inston, and several others. The same three indicators had been scribbled on most of the photographs.

He spread the files over the table and invited both of them to share their thoughts. "The 'I' is pretty obvious," Richard said, pointing to each officer with the mark. "They were all part of the first wave sent to Ibis Island. See? Anders was in command, your friend Rick was tech support. I met Morton once, he was a TRAT officer."

"The people marked with a one were all either in command or directly assisting the commanders," Gail noted, pointing at the first three in particular. "Nothing unusual about either of those."

"Even I figured that much out," Miranda said, finally showing some interest. She moved all the files marked with a 'k' to one side. "But I couldn't figure these ones out. I went to the military archives and everything, but these people don't seem to have much in common."

Gail leaned in and pulled the files she'd selected to him. Mirzin, Regina, Royce, Kesler, Harper. "They're all wanted for treason," he said, leaning back to think.

Pretsin's daughter gasped as if what he'd said was outrageous. "But everyone's been saying Colonel Royce is a hero, that's he's going to finish off the rebels on that Borginian island." She looked at Richard. "You said that yourself on the state channel just last week."

"Oh, yeah, he's heroic enough. Just keep that to yourself, alright? He's probably helping the guys who killed your parents."

That didn't go down well, but Gail barely noticed. Regina's name had been appearing next to Mirzin's for weeks, and Kesler was still somewhere in the city. Royce had been gone for weeks, but who was Harper? The smirking man in the photograph was one he'd seen before. He checked the entire stack again and realised his was the only one marked with both a 'k' and an 'I'. What could that mean?

He held up Frank Harper's photograph. "Either of you recognise this guy?"

"He was assigned to Lieutenant Colonel Anders' command, but I don't know what he did for her. Should still be with her on Ibis Island, right?" Richard said.

"I don't know him, but I don't like his eyes. He looks friendly enough, but… I don't know," Miranda said, pushing the file back to the centre of the table. "You ever meet someone who looks happy and friendly but when you see their eyes you can tell it's all a lie? That's this guy."

He thought about the five of them. Pretsin's labelling structure was straightforward: a one meant importance and an 'I' meant Ibis Island, surely. There was no use in trying to pretend otherwise: the 'k' referred to Edward Kirk. The question was the same as before: were these observations or theories? Were they the only five to know Kirk was alive? Any doubts he'd had were quickly fading. Even without the physical evidence he was sure: Kirk had been in that warehouse, and Regina and Mirzin at the least had been with him. She was protecting that deranged creature, but the reason eluded him.

He looked at Richard. "You said you were going to hire an assistant?"

"Eh?" he replied, throwing Regina's photograph back onto the pile. "Oh, yeah, I'll find someone tomorrow."

"No need," Gail replied. "You're our new assistant," he said, pointing at Miranda.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "I'm not exactly qualified. Twenty, no work experience, probably not the most reliable…"

He cut her list short. "I don't care. You're a better choice than anyone he'll find." And it was true. Trust was in short supply, but the people they were chasing had executed her parents in cold blood. She wouldn't betray them.

Pretsin's meticulousness was going to identity his murderer, of that Gail was convinced. Royce, Mirzin, Regina, Kesler, Harper. Not only them, but Kirk. They were his leads. Chasing Kirk had nearly killed him last time, but he wasn't going to make the same mistake. The things he'd seen on Ibis Island couldn't be allowed to repeat in a populated area.

"Right," he declared. "What are we waiting for? Morrent, send those files to me as soon as possible. At some point there was an information leak, and at this point these five people are our primary suspects. Mark Royce off the list; too high profile. Mirzin too, he's well-known and was injured at the time."

"But that only leaves three," Miranda pointed out, reaching over the table and pointing at their targets.

"No, it doesn't. It leaves one. Everyone knew Regina and Kesler were in the city, and neither of them could have had known your father was an informant. All evidence says this last one was sent to Ibis Island, but the notes indicate he was seen in the city with our other targets. Your mother was killed because she could have identified him. Frank Harper is where we'll start investigating."

Even so, it wasn't enough. If this man was the one who'd corrupted Regina and set this entire affair into motion as Pretsin's records implied, what was his motive? If he was merely helping Royce than why did he enter the city secretly without their knowledge? Fighting an enemy without a clear motivation was always dangerous, and it seemed like more and more of his foes were of their kind. Harper, Kirk, and now Regina. There was a very real chance he could be assassinated as a precaution. Anybody who operated so methodically would at least consider making that choice.

But there was nothing to be done about that. He would do his duty as he always had. "Well," Gail said, rising to his feet. "We've got our lead. We know who we're against; now we need to know what they intend to do."

Perhaps they were a poor substitute for the professional agents he'd trained, but it was something of a relief to at last have subordinates who agreed with his choices. He could only hope Regina knew something he didn't, something that could justify her choices. Still, he knew that line of thought was hopeless. How could either of them turn back now?


	12. A2: Chapter 12

Adjusting to a vastly different lifestyle is never said to be particularly easy. Coming to terms with the reality of your situation, settling into a new routine, familiarising yourself with new surroundings: all of it takes a great deal of effort. Regina understood that perfectly, but it really made no difference. Even the overwhelming challenges the military academy presented felt easier to handle than a life in hiding; at least there was the promise of a future and some degree of stability in that life.

Her instinct was to retreat into the background. To be unimportant, and to observe until she knew what needed to be done. Fortunately for her there was little else that could be done in the cramped halls under Merestan. They were there, ridiculous as it still felt to think, to support Edward Kirk. Her own relative unimportance was unavoidable, or so she thought.

As Kirk had promised, his original research facility hadn't been entirely buried. Even so, it took a week to clear the rubble from the stairway after Harper brought in some friends of his to help. Regina wasn't particularly comfortable with that, but what choice did they have? Harper's decisions had all been logically sound up to that point. When five men in grey jackets showed up with appropriate equipment she'd been even less comfortable, but the same men had rescued her once before.

The facility itself was much like the generator she'd seen on Ibis Island. A multi-level device built with the same materials. Several areas had been buried entirely including the main bedrooms and an office. Even without access to those areas the facility was a spacious, lonely place. Its halls smelled faintly of rust and most of the outer rooms were in a poor state of repair. They put up with it as best they could, given the lack of an alternative.

It was the first time she'd ever seen anything approaching longing on Kirk's face, the moment the rubble was finally cleared and he saw the generator intact and waiting. She'd been standing by the back entrance watching as her three new comrades inspected what Kirk had promised. It was her preference, and it always had been, to stand back and observe, even if it did isolate her.

If Third Energy must be developed then he would need to be watched, which was how she'd justified her cooperation with him. His behaviour was inconsistent, and the more time she spent with him the more she realised his cool exterior was little more than a poor façade concealing… well, she couldn't quite say.

And so she remained there, guarding a man she found hard to like and even harder to understand. He had more charisma than he liked to show, she'd quickly realised, but he was still prone to mood swings and sudden displays of anger. They had something in common, though. Neither of them had any real allegiance left to anybody and it showed. She spent most of the first week with Mirzin, the only one there she thought likeable enough to consider an actual friend, but he was becoming increasing sullen as time passed. He hadn't said as much, but there was days when he could barely tolerate company and she could respect that.

That left Harper, the man who'd saved them all. Without him she'd have been in a military prison or dead. From the little she knew of the city's prisons Harper had saved her from any number of tortures, and if he hadn't intervened Kirk would have been killed and Mirzin would soon have followed. Without him and his friends they'd have found it much more difficult to survive, and he'd been tactful enough not to mention it too much.

They rarely spoke and he spent much of his time in the city above. It made her uneasy, but his presence reminded her of the day they murdered four people to cover their tracks and rescue the other two decidedly less dangerous members of their party. She was familiar with killing, perhaps uncomfortably so, but it was only once the day was over that she stopped to consider what they'd done. It was an important part of their training, the ability to push those concerns to the back of your mind.

Regina shook her head, uncomfortable with that line of thought. The analogue clock on the wall indicated it was nearly midnight and there she was laying on an uncomfortable bed staring at a series of pipes running across the ceiling through the gloomy light of the one lamp in the room. Once the novelty of living in a research base wore off (and that was within the first two days) the constant uncertainty and boredom became unbearable. She left the room, taking care to seal the door on her way out, but her first choice of distraction proved unfruitful. Leaning on the doorway to the break room she saw Dmitri Mirzin laying on an ugly grey couch, a book resting on his chest and the television playing a news program. He was staring at the ceiling, completely oblivious. It was difficult to say exactly what brought on his change in attitude. The injury was a likely answer. He pretended he was fine, but he also asked Harper for strong painkillers twice in the last week.

Still, he'd have to open up eventually. The only other option was to check on Kirk. This was a very risky thing to do; some days he was amiable and relaxed. Other days he would barely speak at all, and when he did it would only be to insult her. It wasn't something she could tolerate under usual circumstances, but men of science had a reputation for that sort of thing and it was better than boredom. He rarely left the generator room or his work, so finding him was never particularly difficult.

The complex was large enough that the four of them could avoid each other easily, but Regina found him leaning over four iron desks pushed together before the generator. Each one was covered in diagrams and drawings which he was studying with care, running a finger across a blueprint and muttering to himself. She couldn't help but watch from the entrance to the hall trying to understand how he worked, how he looked when alone and unguarded.

Kirk brushed his hand over one of the larger sheets and lowered his head. "Do you intend to stand there all day?" he asked, still looking at the diagrams. An invitation to leave, or to stay?

She approached him from behind, eyes drawn to the enormous generator as they always were. Third Energy, for all its scientific grandeur, might as well have been magic to her.

He glanced at her, just barely, and waved at one of the other seats. They sat in silence for some time. Some people were easier to relate to through silence, and perhaps Edward Kirk was one of them, but his clenched jaw and the absentminded way his finger kept tracing the outline of the same diagram seemed like cause for concern.

"Something wrong?" she asked, deciding not to go any further than that.

He kept staring at the same diagram, expression obscured by his hair. Inhalation as if to reply, but he brushed off her question with a shake of his head. One of _those_ days, clearly.

Again she watched him trace the outline of the same drawing. Tilting her head to get a better angle, it almost looked like one of the designs she'd seen on Ibis Island. Not interested in speaking but not really working either, so what was he doing?

Several minutes passed, each more awkward than the last. Regina was fond of silence; this was different, as if neither of them could speak even if they wanted to.

She sighed in frustration and his fingers tightened around the delicate paper as if to crush it. Memories of the researcher's journals from the island resurfaced, particularly an entry in which Kirk inexplicably locked himself in his quarters and avoided his team for an entire week. It was hard to reconcile that with the outspoken arrogance he usually showed.

Once, after an especially unpleasant mission, Gail sat at his desk for hours and said nothing to anyone, regardless of their intention. Some people really do need their space, and the harder you push the further they retreat into themselves. "I'll leave you to it," she finally said, rising from the seat and turning her back on him. Even when silent he still managed to be an ass.

"Wait," he said as she reached the exit, voice strained as if speaking were a difficult and unnatural task. "I just… come back tomorrow. Not now."

Regina paused on the steps reading out of the hall. How could someone so verbally aggressive and competitive just shut down like this? It was all he wanted, to continue his work, or so he always said. That's what they were doing, but he didn't seem half as happy with it as she'd expected.

He was staring at her through the dim lighting, attention finally drawn from his work. Regina reconsidered his meaning. Perhaps it wasn't intended to be so inconsiderate. What did she actually know about him? For all its apparent difficulty he did say she could come back.

"Right. Tomorrow, then," she said. He crumpled the diagram into a ball and tossed it off the table.

Left with a wide variety of activities available to her, she opted to return to the break room. Edward Kirk was a special case, surely. Mirzin had shown every sign of being a normal human being even if he was prone to periods of lethargy.

The monotonous and, of course, dimly lit, halls passed without much incident. She brushed her hand against the cold metal of the wall while passing, turned a corner and collided with someone attempting the same manoeuvre, her jaw smashing into what felt like a collarbone.

"You've been speaking to _him_, I take it?" the man said, opting to ignore their collision. Regina had been too deep in thought to notice his arrival; perhaps the same was true for him.

"More or less," she replied, unable to disguise the irritation she felt. Her gaze shifted from his chest to his face. "When did you get back?"

"Recently. Very recently," Harper replied, as if annoyed by the question. He was the only one of them who seemed to adjust to living underground, but he was also the only one who could safely leave. Not that he liked to talk about what he did while gone.

He leaned on the side wall and continued speaking. He was always leaning on something. "Kosirim's dealing with our supplies this time, so expect some food worth eating by tomorrow. He has impeccable taste, I promise."

"Great. How're things going up there?"

Harper shrugged, his expression neutral. "Hard to say. Lots of armed patrols, nobody looks happy, and you're still wanted for whatever they said you did. They're still saying Royce is cleaning up a bunch of rebels, but nobody I've met is buying that story. I would've known more, except Hereson purged any remaining Royce supporters in the ranks. And by that I mean he had them lined up and shot."

"Never ends, does it? Only a few months ago I just thought that's how it had to be. If I was sent to kill someone all I need to know was when and where to go."

"Don't feel too bad. They train you to feel that way, you know," Harper said, and despite her best efforts she couldn't find even a hint of mockery in that statement. Clearly one of them was losing their touch.

"Hard as it is to admit, Kirk's the reason I started to question it. Something Rick said about that mission, actually. They lied to us because they wanted weapons data and we weren't even surprised. He's a jerk, but does that make him a bad person? Did he really deserve to be kidnapped and imprisoned when it's our fault he was put in that situation to begin with? I don't know." She sighed. It was easier to pretend not to have opinions, but it was only ever a pretence.

"Thinking like that is how you end up down here," he said, looking curiously at her. "Or like Mirzin," he added with a glance down the hall.

"And there _was_ a data disc in my hotel room," she admitted, tired of secrecy despite knowing Harper wasn't the person to go to for catharsis.

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought that was an oddly specific charge. Well, we're all criminals now. What were you doing with private data from the port?"

"Rick wanted me to investigate while he was gone. Neither of us were ever rebellious, exactly, but after the way they lied to us on the Ibis Island mission it only seemed right to make sure our objectives were really our objectives this time."

"Never half-ass rebellion; it doesn't end well. Now we're doing it properly," Harper declared, his usual smirk returning. "While we're having a moment of honesty, why'd you dye your hair? The picture on the wanted posters is a few years old, but your natural red looks good to me."

Well, that was unexpected. "I don't really know. After a few years in SORT I started to think I was a different person entirely. They just about demand that kind of dedication anyway, and it got to the point where I felt like a fraud when I looked at photos of the person I used to be." That was a little more honesty than she'd intended to offer. Hard to avoid appreciating even Harper's company when Mirzin spent all day staring at the ceiling and Edward Kirk was, well, Edward Kirk.

He remained silent, expression almost unreadable, but neither of them moved. "Your turn," Regina said, flashing an exact copy of Harper's favourite smirk back at him. Never waste a good opportunity to turn the tables. "When we confronted the major general's secretary she acted like she knew you. And she called you Michael. Thought your name was Frank, Harper."

To his credit, he kept his composure despite her blunt (if veiled) accusations. "It's been a while. I figured you'd forgotten all about that. Moved on to the next assignment and all that."

Does he think I'm a complete idiot, she wondered? "Give me some credit. You think I'm going to miss something like that? I'm onto you the second you slip up, Harper. Don't forget that."

"You know, I might have underestimated you. But we're all friends here," Harper said with a short laugh. His expression changed within a second, losing the humour. "You're right, though. She did know me."

"How?"

"We kept running into each other at a restaurant I liked a few years back."

Regina scowled at that. "You can't even be honest for one question?"

"Hey, that is honesty. I knew who she was, but she didn't ever figure out I was working with Anders. She was interesting. I figured out most of her personality was an act so she'd fit into the military, but I didn't have the same luxury. Told her my name was Michael. Didn't really work out and we lost contact."

"Then why did you kill her?" If ever there was a time to be blunt, that was it.

"I guessed there was an informant and she was the logical lead to follow. So I followed her for a while, figured out her routine, and we 'coincidentally' met back up in another restaurant. I used the opportunity to copy her hard drive and steal some documents. She'd have guessed it was me before long, and an on-off relationship built on lies wasn't going to stop her pointing me out to Hereson in a line-up," he said, shrugging as if it were unimportant.

Regina remained silent for a moment while she absorbed that information. None of it came as a surprise, since it was a less lethal version of the way he made all their targets, and perhaps his allies, trust him.

"Your name's not Frank, is it?"

"Is your name Regina?" Harper laughed again and left, clapping her on the back as he did so. "I've got to go see our friend Edward, so I'll let you go on that one." Listening to the fading sound of his steps, she realised that was perhaps the closest to a genuine conversation they'd ever had. "Good luck with that," she muttered, imagining how Kirk was going to handle someone so overbearing in his current state.

She stood there in the hallway for a moment and considered what he just said. Probably just a bunch of lies, she attempted to believe, but it didn't seem that way. It was the same problem as with Kirk, really. What did she actually know about Harper? He was dangerous, apathetic, and could switch between violence and charisma within a second. He claimed to have no particular desires or goals, but here he was with the rest of them.

Before long she found herself back at the entrance to her room, which was formerly used for storage and conveniently located far from the other bedrooms. As the door opened she realised her description of Harper applied perfectly to herself. The difference was that she was forced into this life. He'd chosen to come back to Merestan. He'd chosen to find her and he'd chosen to find Kirk. And for a man with no goals, that was undeniably suspicious.

With that settled, even if inconclusively, she took a shower more from routine than need and settled in for another night of uncomfortable and inconsistent sleep. It took a few hours to get there, admittedly, but once asleep she didn't wake until after noon. Not that noon had much meaning underground.

Another shower took half an hour off the day and she returned to the break room. They were all used to the occasional difficulties shared living quarters presented, fortunately, but that didn't make it any less uncomfortable to have to live with people like Kirk and Harper, even if they hadn't once made any untoward advances. One thing she'd never had to deal with, thankfully. The first thing she noticed was the smell of some sort of roasting meat. The mystery was revealed when she approached and heard the sounds of a rather subdued argument.

"… not going to work if he doesn't tell me what he needs," a rather frustrated voice said.

"Nothing I can do about it. Just give him some time," said a lighter voice. Regina turned the corner and saw Mirzin attempting to enjoy a roast lunch while Harper argued with him. They both turned and stared as she approached. Neither looked particularly happy, but at least Mirzin was speaking again.

"Lunch?" a quiet voice asked from the side. Kosirim stood there, still dressed excessively formally, holding a plate of roast beef and vegetables. That came as something of a surprise, though she'd never bothered to ask exactly why he followed Harper the way he did.

She took the plate and muttered her thanks, taking the seat across from Mirzin. No point wasting any time. "So, what's the problem?"

"Kirk's being uncooperative, that's the problem," Harper said, visibly irritated. He pulled a chair to the edge of the table and sat down. Regina prepared herself for another session of manipulation, glancing at the man across from her as he stabbed a piece of carrot. He was still using his right arm exclusively, she couldn't help but notice.

"Problem is, and I've neglected to mention this: while you're all relaxing down here you don't see the big picture," he continued. "Merestan's a military city and that's getting pretty hard to ignore. They're setting up more checkpoints and every entrance to the city is guarded. You don't get in or out without being checked, and pretty soon it's going to be risky even for me to try and leave. They're not looking for me because I'm not meant to be here, not because they don't want me dead, you realise?"

"What he's trying to say," Mirzin interrupted," is that if Kirk needs research materials from outside the city, he needs to say it now. But he's not. Saying it, I mean." He looked to the side awkwardly and returned his attention to the plate.

Regina met Harper's intense stare and shrugged. "He doesn't have the devices. You know, that Stabilizer he's always thinking about? And an Initializer. I activated the generator on Ibis Island, and you need both of those to do anything. You should've picked them up when you left the island."

Harper stared for a moment and ran a hand over his face in frustration. "I didn't exactly anticipate ending up here. Lots of plans in motion, and not all of them are mine, you know?" He pointed a finger at her. "You can figure it out, if you like. He's been in that same room all night, so he's probably too tired to argue."

"And what are you going to do?"

"I'm going back up top. You remember Kesler from Royce's office? She found some new friends and blew up an armoury a few nights back, so I'm going to try and get in contact with her. Could be useful to have a friend with explosives. Any of you seen my grey jacket?" He left before any of them could answer, muttering something to Kosirim before he did so.

"Wonder what's got him in such a good mood," Mirzin muttered, sinking in his chair as Harper left. It was always tense when he was in the room.

"We'll never know." She'd never had much interest in food, but clearly Kosirim really was a skilled cook. An idea occurred to her, and she asked Mirzin if Kirk had eaten anything.

He shrugged, evidently confused. "Don't think so. I lived with the guy in that dingy basement for a while, remember? He'll get around to it eventually."

"Right. And how are you holding up?"

"I'm not exactly happy with how this is turning out. We're isolated and hiding, the Colonel's stuck on that island, Kirk's unreliable, and Harper creeps me out. And I feel useless." He laughed, trying and partially managing not to sound too bitter. "What about you?"

That question came as a complete surprise. Nobody ever asked her how she was holding up. It'd always been her job to hold everyone else together. "I'm fine. All things considered, this could've been a lot worse."

"Yeah, I know. It's just something John said before…" Mirzin paused as if regretting the choice to open his mouth. "Before he died he said I never did believe this could end badly. And he was right. I never stopped to think we _could_ lose, or even that some of us had bigger things to worry about. He never liked me much, and now I think I know why."

Regina was, for once in her life, unsure of how she should respond. She'd just about killed the man herself, after all. But that didn't seem like the point he was making. "I think you're right," she ultimately said. "I never put much thought into it either. I knew my job, I did it, I pushed the rest to the side. And maybe I don't want to live that like anymore." She ran a hand through her bright red hair while thinking.

"Aren't we cheerful today?" he said, showing an ever rarer smile.

She barely even heard that. "I think I know what to do. If Harper comes back keep him away from Kirk for a while, would you? Tell him I'll handle it." Without waiting for an answer she left to find Kosirim.

Ten minutes later Regina arrived at the entrance to the cavernous hall containing the generator, a place she'd begun to think of as Kirk's lair.

The man himself was in the exact same position she'd left him in the night before. Standing over the table, eyes fixed on a stack of paper, expression obscured by his long hair. He had a pen in his hand, at least, and the papers seemed to be covered in notes and markings.

Despite her better judgement she hesitated at the entrance for a moment before entering. Whatever the problem was, a different approach was clearly needed. What was it he hated so much? Condescension, manipulation, hypocrisy… the list was terribly long, but if she avoided all of that…

"Hey, I brought you some lunch," Regina called out while approaching the desks. Kirk looked away from his work, gaze drifting to the plates on her arm.

She stopped at the table and he continued staring before making a decision and clearing some room. "You did say I should come back today," she reminded him.

His face twitched, whether from annoyance at being interrupted or regret at making that particular concession was difficult to tell. "I suppose I did."

"You weren't up all night, were you?" She was fairly sure he was.

He slowly nodded, poking at the roast vegetables. "I couldn't stop thinking, so I stayed up. That's how I've always done it."

"Isn't that inefficient?"

He raised an eyebrow, obviously not expecting her to question his methods.

"I mean, you're fatigued, starving, and alone. How do you solve anything when you're like that?"

His eyes narrowed as if that were a personal challenge. "I originally came up with the idea for Third Energy after fifty hours without sleep. It doesn't work for everyone, but I never claimed it would."

They ate in silence, though the atmosphere was undeniably awkward. Usually their encounters were much more heated, but the prospect of sitting down for lunch with the man unnerved her more than the prospect of interrogating him. She wasn't sure what to make of that.

"Why are you here?" Edward asked, looking at her with a perplexed look on his face.

"After all the trouble I've gone through to keep you alive I couldn't just let you starve to death. You haven't even finished your life's work yet," she replied, smiling faintly. Rick would approve of these methods, she was sure. If he was even alive.

"That would be inefficient, wouldn't it?" There was a hint of his usual arrogance in that reply.

"Seriously, though, is something wrong? You haven't been yourself for nearly a week. I don't think you've insulted me for days."

Kirk's eyes locked onto her own. She realised with some surprise he was looking for mockery, but she'd been completely sincere.

He sighed. "It's the Stabilizer. If I can't make it work everything I've done has been for nothing. And right now I don't even have one to work with, and you can be sure none of the equipment in this city could produce something so precise. I'm completely stuck."

"You were pretty close, right? So with a little more time you'd be able,' she began, but he cut her off.

"That's not how it works," he spat, voice suddenly filled with irritation. "I've been working on this for years and something's _always_ been missing. The great scientist Edward Kirk, prodigy, genius, inventor, but what have I actually accomplished? _Nothing_." He swept an entire stack of papers to the floor. "It might be bearable if only I hadn't based my entire identity on being this _person_." Kirk's gaze snapped back to her. "You might be a tool of the state, but at least you're good at it."

His rant seemingly finished, Edward looked at the generator, and then her, and then the table, his expression growing increasingly dejected.

"I'm not a tool of the state," Regina replied, nothing but calmness and clarity in place of his rage. "Not anymore. Maybe I don't know what to do about it. I might not have Gail's certainty, or the zealousness of Mirzin and Royce, or even whatever drives Harper, but I'm not the same person you met on Ibis Island."

She laughed, not having the kind of anger he did to fuel her thoughts "If I hadn't met you I'd have been on another mission, probably preparing to kidnap or kill someone else. Why? Because I was good at it. I never thought any further than that. Maybe you do put too much effort into living up to this image of perfection, but at least you've got that much."

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Talking about herself was surprisingly difficult, especially to someone so callous, but it was the only thing she could think to do that wouldn't have angered him further.

"You're not who I thought you were," Edward finally said, his tone quiet once again.

"No, I think you were right. Why else would I have put up with what you said when we were under that foundry? People change, Kirk. That includes you."

"So who are you now?"

"Who knows? I've got the time to work on that. Question is, what do you want to do? You really don't have to work on Third Energy if you don't want to."

"No." It was a blunt statement. "I do need to see this through. Whether it really is possible I've come to doubt, but I need to try again. This idea, that perfecting the Stabilizer isn't actually possible, has bothered me for years. I'd have done absolutely anything to see it finished. That night on Ibis Island, I finally understood why people commit atrocities in the name of science."

"Which is why I'm going to have to stay around. You think too much. I bet you could justify just about anything if you had enough time to think up an excuse for it."

He opened his mouth, clearly annoyed, but she didn't let him continue. If she stopped speaking she had the distinct impression she'd get distracted and ruin everything.

"But this time let's do it properly. A good start would be not to give your secrets to military officials. And tell Harper what you need. I don't trust him either, but I think he wants this done just as badly as you do. Write a list and get some sleep. And if you don't like having to live up to this reputation you think you've got, don't. You're much harder to hate when you're like this, believe it or not."

This time he did succeed in interrupting her. "Why are you doing this?"

"Huh?" That was supposed to be an obvious one. "Well, if I want to be something other than a military thug, how can I expect anyone else to accept that if I don't give them the same chance? And you've done more than most to be an irredeemable jackass, so I'm starting with you."

"This is not what I expected, but I suppose that makes some sort of sense," Kirk muttered, but he did look a little less dejected.

"Fine," he announced. "I didn't ever expect to say this, but you might be right. I'll write a list for that dead-eyed creep. And I'll think about it. All of it."

"Great,' she replied, exhaling in relief. "Coming in here I thought you were just going to laugh at me for daring to give you advice."

Now he did look annoyed. "Not if the advice was good, which it may well be. It's stupidity I dislike. And mindless obedience. And maybe the way I've treated myself could be considered mindless obedience of a sort." He shrugged. "It'll need more thought."

"Then I'll leave you to it," Regina said, rising to her feet. That was more exhausting than most missions.

When she reached the door she heard him say something else. "Would you come back tomorrow?"

She looked back at him and nodded. "See you then, unless you get a social life and take a break before that."

He snorted at that and waved a brusque goodbye, picked his pen back up and began writing on a fresh piece of paper. Was that why Rick always put human life as his first priority? Because he understood people could be more than their first impression, that they had potential? She'd have to ask if they ever met again.


	13. Chapter 13

_Author Note: This is something of a major turning point, and in a direction I wasn't originally intending to take. With that in mind there are changes that will need to be made to certain earlier plot points (mostly in Rick's chapters, which I find hardest to write), but nothing too significant outside of a few conflicting sentences. It's difficult to piece together a story with so many elements in this serial format without that happening.  
_

"Twenty-five? No, wait, twenty-three."

"Wrong, both times."

"Oh, come on, how far off could I be?"

Regina leaned in as if she were preparing to reveal a great secret. "I'm twenty-four. You still lose, but don't feel too bad about it."

"That's easy for you to say. What's the punishment this time?" The defeated man sank further into his seat. "Wait, hold on. How old am I? If you're wrong we'll call it even."

She was never the type to let a challenge go unanswered. Dmitri Mirzin's position in the military had been rather prestigious, though he looked quite young. Hadn't she looked over his file once? Possibly, but the exact date was hard to recall.

"Twenty-eight?"

Mirzin stared at her, completely motionless, before pointing an accusing finger. "You're a dirty cheater, and don't you deny it," he declared, but he laughed despite that. "Well, what is it this time?"

"My shotgun needs cleaning. Again. Preferably by the time I get back," she demanded. Despite the somewhat improved atmosphere in their underground hideout, there was so little to do that the two of them had taken to playing any number of ridiculous games just to pass the time. A partial media blackout was in effect, though none of them were entirely sure why. She imagined Harper could explain if he wanted to, but she wasn't going to be the one to ask.

"That's pretty creepy. You have some urgent use for it later tonight?" He waved off her attempt to answer, his joking manner vanishing before her eyes. "Seriously, though, you've done some good with Kirk, if that's where you're going. Actually, this isn't the first time I've been down here with him," he admitted, and she had the distinct impression he'd been working up to telling her that.

She raised an eyebrow. "So you must've been Royce's assistant for, what, more than four years?"

He nodded glumly. "I saw Kirk a few times back when this place was operational. Any time he went weird and aggressive or locked himself up we just left him to it. Anton's a good guy, but he'll treat you the way you treat him, and you know what Kirk's like. He likes to hand the insults out but if you dare to return the favour…"

"Is that why any time you even mention him Kirk's face twists up? Well, that and having him kidnapped and imprisoned."

"Yeah, you'd think so. Slow progress is the risk you take with these things, but eventually he even stopped reporting in. The one experiment they tried being a massive failure made it even worse. Still, he really seemed surprised when the project was cancelled, like we were going to put up with that bullshit forever. You can't really take those kind of risks without a lot of trust, and that was around the time of the northern campaign anyway, so resources were in short supply." His voice trailed off as if he'd forgotten he was speaking. A violent shudder returned his attention to her. "I need booze. Remind me to tell Kosirim to buy some."

"Somewhere between where you started and the request for booze I think you forgot the point you were trying to make."

He re-established eye contact, visibly struggling to remember something. "Oh. Right. Point is, I thought of the same thing you did but couldn't pull it off. People like that are difficult. They're so sure that everything they say is right, but half the time they don't even believe it themselves. What a mess. I still don't know if it'll work, but you've got more hope with that than anything the Colonel tried. Although he was the one who first thought you'd be able to do it. That kind of skill with people got him where he is now."

In a war-zone, she thought? "We'll see whether it makes any difference. Try not to get too miserable while I'm gone, okay? And don't forget our deal either." Mirzin smiled weakly at that and waved as she stood up.

"Regina," he called as she approached the door. She turned back expecting another cheap joke but his expression was almost mournful. It was a side of the man he took great care to conceal. "You may not remember this, but not long after we first met I told you we were going to make a move. I don't know what's going on up there, but it's too late to turn back now. Just remember who's on the right side and who's not, alright?"

Yet another one who lived each day as a lie, Regina realised. With a short nod she turned and left. There was nothing else she could do.

The flimsy door closed behind her with a soft click. After her initial success several days earlier, managing to have an entirely civil conversation with Edward Kirk and even giving him some advice that he seemed to find interesting, they'd been regularly meeting for lunch. He was slowly returning to his usual self, perhaps with a little less hostility, but even if they usually didn't speak much he did seem to appreciate the company. It even had some appeal to her, like unravelling a particularly complex puzzle.

It wouldn't be happening that day, however. The night before she'd received a rather uncomfortable visit in her private quarters, opening the door after a shower only to find Harper sitting at her desk. Despite the unnerving way he looked her over, all he did was ask her to meet him at the exit stairwell the following afternoon before leaving. There was more than one way to interpret that, no doubt.

Regina took the opposite hall leading away from the generator and approached the stairs leading to the exit, squinting to see through the poor lighting. The stairwell behind the heavy steel door at the top, cramped and dangerous despite their efforts, ended in a series of tunnels under a particularly poor part of the western port district. It was only after they arrived that Mirzin admitted the tunnels had been built to disguise the facility despite their legitimate appearance.

The sound of boots on iron grates greeted her at the door. "Took you long enough," said an acidic voice, and Harper stepped through the doorway, crouching slightly to fit under the frame.

"After all the effort you put into that jump scare last night I figured it might as well get this over with. And the next time you do that expect to leave with something broken," she replied.

"I'll look forward to it. Anyway, I've got some news for you. You, not the other two. It took me a few days, but I managed to contact Kesler."

Regina's memories of the woman were vague. Middle-aged, perhaps, with a stern persona and respected history as an infantry commander.

"So?"

"She's arranged a meeting, and I need you to come along as backup. She'll recognise you, and she wants a demonstration of good faith. If this doesn't go well we're in trouble, not least of all because she'll kill us both."

"Why weren't you good enough? And why not take Mirzin instead? He was actually important, unlike me," she argued, immediately suspicious of both Harper and his new friend.

"She doesn't trust me, that's why. Anders recruited me, if you have to know, and they despise each other. And we're not telling Kirk or Mirzin about any of this." He leaned over and pulled a bag from one of the top steps. "Besides, he's not going to be any use in a fight."

She pointed at the bag and raised an eyebrow. "You've been shopping?"

"Yeah, and all for your sake." He threw it over and she took a look inside. "Black hair dye? Sunglasses?" she asked. "You sure this isn't a roundabout way of getting me to indulge a fetish you haven't mentioned?"

Harper found that terribly amusing, if his loud laugh was to be believed. "It'll stop people staring long enough for us to get to the rendezvous without being shot by patrols. And you never know, it might look good on you, but I always preferred natural red. You'll thank me for the sunglasses once you remember you haven't seen the sun for weeks."

"Right." His was a surprisingly effective way to communicate, she realised. So much of what he said was filled with double meanings and alternative interpretations that it was hard to catch him in an actual lie.

"We'll leave a little before sunrise so you don't blind yourself. Take a pistol, and don't tell them. Especially Mirzin. I mean it. My last plan worked because you listened, so give me the same courtesy this time."

Harper turned around to head back up the stairwell. "Wait," Regina called out, using an authoritative tone usually reserved for official assignments. He stopped, showing clear curiosity. "I don't know why you're doing this, and I know you're not going to tell me. Just give me one reason to trust you. One."

"I appreciate the opportunity, but we both know it doesn't work that way. You have no reason to trust me; you've got no reason to trust Royce either, and that includes his pawns." He smiled again, and she knew it was an entirely artificial gesture for her benefit. "Tomorrow morning, then?" After a terse nod of confirmation he turned back and ascended the stairwell without another word.

Another restless night passed with difficulty, sleep proving itself more evasive than ever. His final words echoed in her mind, and spent spend some time trying to decide on their actual meaning. Ultimately she conceded defeat, realising she knew so little about any of them that any further thought would be wasted.

She'd dyed her hair as he requested, taking care to avoid a late night questioning session from the other two. It wasn't that she disliked the colour, but Mirzin would ask too many questions and Kirk would be sure to have some piece of mocking commentary to share.

Admitting the hopeless of her situation, she checked the clock and decided to beat Harper to the top. If their last adventure was an indicator he'd have planned the entire thing out down to the last detail anyway. With some regret she left her freshly cleaned shotgun behind, opting for a concealed pistol in her jacket pocket. Even before the recent internal conflict the city was full of unrest; she couldn't think of one reason why that wouldn't have worsened.

"Don't tell her I'm here," whispered a soft voice when she reached the main stair leading to the exit. Restraining her slight surprise, Regina turned and saw a shadowy figure lurking in the doorway to what was once a small office.

"You're well informed," Regina replied in a similar subdued tone.

"And you're still so naïve it's almost endearing," Edward Kirk replied, taking a half-step into the light to confirm she was alone. "I set up a monitoring system over the entrance in my first stay down here. After all these years it's nice to see it finally paid off. Had to keep track of my research team, as you can imagine." He paused for thought. "Well, maybe you can't, but that's not the point."

He was too much to handle at four in the morning. "Right," she said, perfectly aware of how lifeless she sounded. "You don't want to me to tell Kesler you're here, is that it?"

"Yes. Secrecy is the one advantage we have and it's gone the moment she knows I'm here," he said, and she was sure he was working up to a monologue and detailed list of things not to do.

"Royce isn't stupid. He'll check here if he even suspects you're alive, and Harper came back with specific orders to recruit you. That's why he showed up at that hospital."

"Naïve, naïve, naïve," Kirk sneered, though it lacked his usual sincerity. "The men who rescued us? Harper's men. The facility? Not one of Royce's men ever entered except Pretsin, and he died moments later. Officially he never returned to the city, and he's kept the three of us completely isolated ever since."

He was right. He was right and she couldn't begin to say what that meant.

Kirk's eyes glittered in the darkness. "You expressed a desire to stop being a mindless military woman, yes? Now's a good chance to start. Start with no assumptions: observe Harper and observe Kesler. When you return we'll try to make sense of this mess. But remember: Royce started this and he left you to die. Remember that, because he'll do it again if you give him the chance. Neither of them have earned your trust."

He paused for breath, nodded and, clearly uncomfortable with expressing so much emotion at once, made a quick exit. Regina was surprised that he took the time and effort to try and help her the same way she did him, but was that so unusual? So that was the way of it: Edward Kirk was just as helpless as she was and he knew it. There was some solace to be taken in that.

Ascending the stairway for the first time in weeks she felt a strong sense of foreboding. It was still an hour before she was expected to appear, but the idea of seeing the outside world again by herself was too appealing to ignore.

The cool, if stale, air in the tunnels outside the facility came as a surprise after weeks of artificially heated ventilation. Before long she reached the ladder, one which led to a desolate commercial area next to the military port. Her hand brushed over the harsh texture of the rust on the first rung.

Alvernia was in the early stages of autumn and a cool wind from the western sea brought with it the damp scent of salt. The clear night sky, obscured only by light pollution from the city proper to the east, gleamed with bright stars. She emerged in a small alley connecting two near-forgotten streets, the walls stained with graffiti and the stone path cracked and broken. Despite the grim surroundings her first deep breath of the salty air was the most invigorating experience she'd had for far too long.

Her upcoming meeting with Harper seemed entirely unimportant in light of the opportunity, however dangerous, to explore. Her first impression was that the entire city had been emptied while she was underground. Few houses were lit and even fewer businesses were open. The western district was known for its poverty, but the gleaming white fortress that rose from the rows of mundane buildings reminded her all too well of her danger. Not only the western command centre: further in the city a thick column of smoke marked the site of, no doubt, the work of an insurgency much like the one she was soon to meet.

A heavily armed patrol forced her to divert even further west and she eventually reached the coast itself. Even more disturbing than the sight of such overwhelming force on the city streets were the burnt out buildings, boarded up windows, and all too frequent signs of recent violence in the area. The beach itself was entirely empty; she used the opportunity to stand on the shore and reflect on her own life.

Hiding in tunnels, evading and even fighting the army she'd once been a proud member of, the complete isolation from any friends she'd ever had: it was only then, the first time she'd been truly alone since this life had been forced on her, that she allowed herself to feel the things she'd buried on instinct. Much like she'd been trained to watch death with ease, she found over time it grew easier to supress her own emotions. But that was just an excuse, she realised with some bitterness. Rick was a living counterexample, and he'd been by her side from the moment they'd entered the academy.

The unrelenting crash of waves on rock soothed her troubled thoughts and, despite the danger, she focused solely on the moment. Time passed entirely unnoticed and the dark sky began to change, the stars fading away as the first hints of day appeared in the east. A man approached on her right, but he remained silent, staring out at the open ocean with a wistful look in his eyes.

They remained there until the sun rose. It was the first time she'd ever seen him unguarded, even carefree. They'd known each other for less than two months and she couldn't say she knew the first thing about him. The same was true for all of them, and even true for her. She found herself wishing Kirk were there if only so she could see the man removed from the misery of his work: to see him standing in the morning sun with the breeze blowing through his hair. To see if either of them could change.

Harper turned and approached her. "It's time," he said, with a soft glance at her left hand. She realised it was wrapped around the pistol, and the implications were obvious to both of them. He said nothing, responding only with a resigned smile.

The moment was gone. They turned and left the beach behind, alternating between blending in with the growing morning crowds and running through back alleys. Regina followed his lead but more often than not was more successful in choosing a safe route. The sounds of the residential district grew faint as they approached a small dockside industrial area. Even the early morning sun burned her unadjusted eyes, and Harper's sunglasses proved especially useful.

Avoiding the checkpoints proved difficult, but it was a refreshing challenge. Seeing Harper defer to her expertise was especially satisfying. Shortly after entering the industrial area the faint sound of raid sirens surprised them both. The smoke she'd seen after emerging from the tunnels was joined by a second column further to the south.

"That's our signal," Harper muttered, pulling her aside by the shoulder.

"Signal? For a meeting?"

"I told you, didn't I? I already met her. This is our show of good faith, so let's make it a good one."

Regina was so frustrated by that little half-truth that she almost shouted at him on the street. "Well, who does she want killed?" she muttered, not trusting herself to say more.

"Kesler's team just assaulted an industrial train depot used to supply raw materials to the weapons manufacturers. That's going to draw half the soldiers in the city to her, but they're a much bigger force than we are," he explained.

The realisation that she'd become one of the people SORT teams were sent to kill didn't go unnoticed by either of them. Still, she thought, General Hereson's military supplies were his problem, not hers, and she owed him some misery.

"What's our target?"

"Well," Harper replied, his usual smirk returning, "You've seen my friends before. There are only ten of us, including you and Kosirim, but I think that'll be enough."

"Enough for _what_? You want me to help you then you're going to have to stop with the lies. Gail, our SORT team leader, lied to us about Kirk and his research, and it didn't benefit anyone."

"Enough," he continued, tapping the brick wall on his right, "to destroy the fuel depot a mere five minutes from here." He pointed at something behind her. Kosirim was approaching with two other men, one of whom she distinctly remembered from the aftermath of the foundry. "Kirk was right," she murmured to herself.

"Without that fuel Hereson's fleet is going to be useless. He'll have to import from Polostin in the south and that won't be enough. Economy, military, credibility: it'll all take a massive hit."

"Are people really so frustrated that they approve of this?" Even when she was a child it was obvious that there were serious problems in Alvernia, but if it had reached the point of public riots and approval of sabotage then clearly she'd underestimated the problem.

"It's hard to tell from our position. We rarely deal with crushing poverty the regular workers do, or the segregation in the north, or the uniformly miserable prospects for children, ridiculously entrenched class structure, or the extremely punitive military justice system," Kosirim said. "People are tired of it. If the revolutionaries offer them hope they're not going to refuse it."

"Even so," Harper said. "If we bombed a hospital that'd be entirely different. People see an armoury go up in smoke and cheer. Don't believe the state broadcasts. You want to know how the average man in the street sees it then look at someone like Mirzin."

A black van pulled over at next to them. "And here are the supplies." Regina couldn't help but laugh at seeing the same stolen van again.

The back doors opened and a woman in a grey jacket looked out. "Kesler didn't lie. All kinds of explosives, including a few grenade launchers," she said.

"This is some serious firepower," Regina murmured, eyes fixed on the supplies within. Grenades, packs of C4, several RPGs.

"Royce runs more than one weapons manufacturer, and Kesler's running his Merestan operation right now."

So it was that serious. They really had been kept in the dark, but it didn't feel like Harper was doing this to help Kesler or her revolutionaries. What Kirk said was the right path: make no assumptions, just observe.

The fuel depot was enormous, with several dozen large storage tanks visible from their vantage point. It was only then, seeing the size of the facility that she realised the enormity of what Harper had planned. Watching two of Harper's men take positions on the rooftop of a nearby factory, three more loading the RPGS, Kosirim watching the end of the street, his coat billowing in the breeze, Regina understood she finally had the freedom to make her own decision.

The charges Hereson laid against her were false, that much was true. Still, there was no turning back: not to the military, not to her life before SORT. She wasn't fighting to maintain the status quo, or for revolution; she never had been, but the fighting had never stopped. Perhaps that was something she had in common with Edward Kirk, and even with Harper, that she could never have shared with Rick or Gail.

He approached her again, a grenade launcher held at his side.

"You want to bring them both down, don't you?" she asked, meeting his cold grey eyes without hesitation.

"It would be satisfying, don't you think?"

Truth at last. He turned aside and spoke into a wrist communicator, throwing one at her as he did so.

"Everyone else is in position," he said. "We've got the unpleasant task of going in through the secondary entrance on the north side. Security is going to be comparatively light, so with us on the ground and the snipers above I think we'll be fine. Kosirim's group is handling our escape, but we need to get close enough to plant the explosives directly. We don't want to be here it happens, trust me. We'll try and get some information while they do that; when it's done your comm unit's going to light up blue."

It all went the way he said it would as they approached. Two men in watchtowers were shot by the men on the factory rooftop without attracting attention, but the guard post at the secondary entrance was protected by thick protective glass. Thick iron walls surrounded the facility, most of which was built on a small artificial peninsula.

Left with few options, she examined the building from a distance. Harper suggested testing their new firepower on it, but Regina had always preferred the subtle approach. To his credit he agreed to try her plan. "But we have to make a good impression, or they're not going to open up," he whispered, grinning at the audacity of her idea. He cut a sizeable, though shallow, line across his shoulder with the knife from his belt.

"Hey, help," she shouted, running toward the office and supporting a terribly injured Harper with one arm. The man inside's eyes widened in surprise.

He bought their story but still refused to open the door. Blood was running down Harper's chest, ostensibly from an accidental injury. It didn't matter. The small slit in the window used for speaking was at his eye level. He began punching the numbers for the emergency line into his phone and she fired her pistol through the gap a moment before he finished.

"Nearly worked," Harper said. Two more men approached and the four of them pulled masks over their faces. He listened to his communicator for a moment and nodded at the two newcomers. A small charge blew a hole in the wrought iron of the main gate and they charged into the industrial lot on the other side.

Their entrance attracted the attention of two dock workers, both of whom threw themselves on the floor begging for mercy, which they received. Another soldier appeared only to be shot in the head a moment later.

"Which way?" Regina asked, and he pointed at an office complex to the west. "Let's try and get the data from the docking stations." The other two with the explosives ran toward the fuel storage tanks. She seized the fallen soldier's rifle and they approached the doors from either side.

Regina tried the handle and glanced at Harper. He nodded. She threw the door open, but they were expecting trouble and a heavy burst of gunfire from within narrowly missed tearing through her left arm. They began exchanging fire, neither side making any ground. More soldiers appeared from the north and they were forced to take cover behind a concrete sign. She waited a moment, listening past the shots, and fired back at the entrance to the offices. A sharp scream confirmed her intuitive guess, but Harper admitted defeat and threw a grenade through the doors into the hall within. "Back to the front, we're leaving," he shouted, and they used the explosion to make a break for the cover of the sheds in the front lot.

Regina threw herself around the corner of a flimsy industrial shed, firing around each corner to dissuade them from following. The communicator on her arm flashed with blue light and she prepared to sprint again despite the risk.

The sound of another explosion, closer and larger, silenced several gunners. She peered around the corner and saw three more of Harper's team approaching, two with grenade launchers. Most of the soldiers guarding the facility were on the retreat, unwilling to face snipers and explosives so close to the fuel.

Three vans, including the black armoured ban carrying the weapons, were waiting at the front entrance. When she reached them she threw herself into the passenger seat of the weapon's van and all three left in separate directions.

Harper's face was tense and none of his usual mannerisms were present. "I'm losing my touch," he said, tone far more bitter than she'd expected. Regina understood, or thought she did. Only eight of the ten he'd sent in returned despite it being a routine operation.

"Still, it had to be done," he continued, with a glance over at her. "Kirk needs his Stabilizer, and Kesler's the only one who can get me back to Ibis Island. The weapons are just a benefit on the side."

Nothing more was said for some time, even when they stopped at a warehouse to switch cars, until their arrival on the slopes of the city's northern border. The clear skies of the morning were changing and the cool breeze was turning bitter. They left the car in a commercial lot with a stunning view of the entire city and were met by three people.

"So, I heard there was an incident at the docks, something about an armed raid. Clearly nothing successful," their leader, a stern-faced woman, said as she approached. Her gaze shifted from Harper to Regina. "Still, you weren't lying about her."

"And I wasn't lying about this either." He reached into his jacket pocket, pausing at the sight of Kesler's men and their pistols. He pulled a phone and dialled. "Regina, tell Kosirim to do it,"

She knew what he wanted. Was it what she wanted? Would Kesler even want the depot destroyed? She raised the phone to her ear. "Kosirim? Yes, do it."

Kesler's men were waiting, likely expecting a trap. Regina turned and looked back at the coast, holding the phone at her side.

For a brief moment it looked to have failed, but within a fraction of a second the flames tore through the fuel tanks closest to the sea and the flame erupted into an explosion so bright Regina fell back, covering her eyes to avoid the searing pain. There was a slight tremor in the earth despite their distance. By the time she risked a half-look back the entire depot was engulfed in flame; many of the buildings they'd so recently fought by were twisted and burnt beyond recognition, and the thick flames were spreading to nearby factories. The plumes of black smoke that rose from the ruins filled the western sky within minutes, but none of them could avert their eyes from the sheer enormity of the destruction they'd caused. Regina watched the enormous gates on the far end of the western command centre part as a strike force left for the western shore.

"The fuel depot," Kesler muttered. "I was hoping you'd choose something with a little less value when we take over, but I suppose it'll do."

"That should be enough to satisfy the Colonel, so I'll uphold my end of the deal. You'll have your weapons and your support, and your ship."

"Wait, you're in contact with Royce?" Regina asked, unable to hide her disbelief.

"I'm managing his operations in the city. He's quite busy negotiating with Borginia, with some success already. Are you familiar with Kosra's militia? They're on our payroll now. I can arrange for you to re-join him on the island, if you'd prefer that to being one of _his_ people. I believe the tech expert we brought in with you is proving particularly useful; he'll be glad to hear you're alive."

A burst of adrenaline hit her veins at the thought. A chance to return to military life, to join with Rick and return to the life she'd once been expected to lead. Harper's grey eyes stared from the side, but he said nothing.

And yet she found the idea lacked any real appeal. It would be a denial of all the changes she'd hoped to make, but that wasn't even her main concern. If she left, it would be seen as an utter betrayal by Kirk. She wasn't a fool: the hope that she could understand him, that he could come to understand her, was one of the few things left to the man. His life had been filled with isolation, and misery, and lies, and to leave now to re-join the forces of a man he despised could only turn that bitterness into an unquenchable hatred.

"I'm grateful for the offer, but I can do more here."

Kesler nodded her approval. "You're willing to make the hard choice. I'm impressed. I'll send instructions for the delivery of your equipment and have the ship docked in the usual spot. I suppose this makes us official allies, so feel free to contact us to request support, and we'll expect the same from you. I assume they're going to send someone after you because of this, though you should be capable of handling that more than most."

With another long look at the destruction below them she turned and left. Neither of them were ready to speak for some time after. "Are you surprised I didn't go with her?" Regina finally asked, turning away from the flames to look at her companion.

He shook his head. "Leaving would be admitting defeat. Leaving would mean returning to the past. I don't see you choosing either of those. I certainly didn't see you letting Kirk out of your sight."

The western sky was choked with thick black smoke and the flames showed no signs of abating. "Third Energy would make what we did today look like absolutely nothing, you realise?"

"Not the way you do, but I understand it as a concept. It would singlehandedly win the civil war they're all so determined to start."

"Do you think we're any better?"

"I don't know. I was in your position once. Anders had me put a team together for the uprising in the northern territories. The same team you met today. I've never been empathetic, you understand. I regretted having to kill my lover, but I didn't feel the emotional pain I was expected to. I could kill you now and regret it terribly, but it would be a logical response, not an emotional one. There's something missing, and people like me are prized for that work. Anders understands because she's the same way. You had to be trained to feel that way and it still didn't change who you were at your core, didn't it?"

He continued without pause. "And even to someone like me it was repulsive. We weren't fighting a righteous battle the way she and Royce framed it, we were experimenting on a captive populace. If we bomb this how will they respond? If we assassinate this official what will the people do? One of their, no, _my_, most effective tactics was to fabricate a situation in which our enemies were blamed for any number of vile tragedies, all of which were, in fact, solely caused by us. They were playthings in our games, and once they were beaten into submission we returned for a round of promotions and medals. So much secrecy for something we all knew we'd done, like children hiding soiled bedsheets."

It was absolutely vile, and she couldn't even hate him for it. She thought of Gail. Was this what he meant: duty first no matter the cost? How could anyone tolerate a life under those circumstances?

"Why?"

He smiled at her question, and it was just as unpleasant as it had been when they first met, more of an imitation than a genuine expression. "Look around you, Regina. The game never finished, did it? They just moved the board. You don't need me to tell you what they gained or why they did it."

"What we're doing isn't going to fix this."

"No, it won't," he replied. "And I'm no idealist. Still, I could never lead a normal life. Even this has never satisfied me. I wonder if it'll come as a surprise when they realise people are still capable of independent thought."

"Now you sound just like Kirk. His response was self-destruction, though it took me a while to see it that way. I thought it was disinterest. Maybe he saw it that way too, but I think he wanted them to abuse his work. It would have proven everything he said to be true, and what better revenge could there be than for someone like him than being proven right even in defeat."

"And you?"

She paused, again finding it harder to focus on herself than the people around her.

"Even if they hadn't made me a wanted criminal, the only thing that motivated me was blind faith that what we did was just. Maybe Royce is right to fight for a revolution. Mirzin grew up in this city and he thinks so." Her voice trailed off while she considered what she knew of the man. "But I'm not going to fight for any of them. Not like this. And if that means I have more in common with you and Kirk than I do anyone else, I'll have to accept that."

They returned to the underground research facility with some difficulty, the trip taking more than twice its usual time to pass because of the security measures enacted through the city as a direct result of the day's violence. It was difficult to look at Mirzin after the actions and revelations of that day. Harper left for Ibis Island the following morning, but she now felt she understood some small part of who he was and why he gave up his station in the military to join them.

Edward Kirk, a man often prominent in her thoughts, listened to her explanation of the day to the last detail, growing more excited by the moment. Her description of the city above and the chaos within, the recounting of their raid on the fuel depot and the meeting with Kesler, and especially her discussion with Harper. Regina was expecting disbelief or scepticism, even a sudden change in his position, but ultimately he admitted it was more than he could have hoped for. That he had a chance, however small, to not only complete Third Energy but to deny its power to any of the power-hungry groups he'd been forced to serve.

In hindsight she knew she should have expected such a response. Kirk was a highly emotional man even if he pretended otherwise. Volatility was a problem for him. If only he could control his wildly fluctuating moods his intellect and physical allure would have solved most of his interpersonal problems before they ever began. Still, she didn't share his enthusiasm despite her admissions to both men. It was more likely that would be captured and killed for their stubborn refusal to choose a side. The difference, she considered, may well have been that in the case of failure neither Harper nor Kirk cared for their own lives to continue.


	14. Chapter 14

"Main targets are moving toward the northern border. Do not, repeat, do not, pursue. Armoured support is approaching from the south. Hold until their arrival. Orders are to capture if possible, but only if there's a clear opportunity," shouted a woman's voice. Distinguishing her words was next to impossible through the sound of gunfire.

The soldiers surrounding Gail, a mix of heavily armoured TRAT professionals and regular city guards pulled in for support, had surrounded a group of militants responsible for assaulting an industrial train line a mere hour before. The majority of their force had pulled out after using explosives to damage the station beyond any hope of repair, but a significant minority had been trapped inside by the flames and smoke long enough for the military to arrive. It was the second major attack on military infrastructure in the last day and every available soldier had been brought in to, if not to directly respond to the attacks, than to aid in a futile attempt to maintain order throughout the rest of the city.

Within a month the unrest in the city had ignited into an internal conflict too widespread to track. Worse, as General Hereson had privately said before asking Gail to deal with it, the various groups responsible for this damage were uniting. Anton Royce's rebels were the largest and most well-equipped group, but the Borginian funded militants that had caused so much public anger had switched tactics entirely within the last week, cooperating fully with Kesler and her men. Similar, if less severe, situations were erupting through several major cities.

Gail's private opinion was that the city was all but lost. Despite Royce's treachery being an official secret, it was all but open knowledge among the public; worse, he was quickly gaining support. His attempts to track down Regina and her new allies had been ruined by Kesler's emergence. All their intelligence had shown that their targets were isolated and alone, but Gail knew they'd simply been outwitted by Royce yet again. Was Regina with Kesler? He hoped not, but couldn't ignore the possibility.

"Backup's here. It's time to move," the woman on his right said, pointing at a convoy of armoured vehicles approaching from the south. It was a mistake, he knew, and one that would only further agitate the populace.

The TRAT squad approached first using a tank as cover while Gail waited at the rear, his team prepared to gun down any insurgents who attempted to flee. The one advantage they did have was overwhelming force, as the men hidden in the train station quickly realised. The tank's heavy machine gun cut down half the enemy troops in moments, and the soldiers moved in and captured the remainder with little difficulty.

A cursory inspection from the exterior was enough to know the city's weapon manufacturers would be short on materials, right when they were most in demand. The corpses were gathered and lined up on the road for inspection, and the stench of burnt flesh and gore filled his nostrils. It made no difference. None of them were on his list, and they would be quickly replaced when word of Kesler's success spread around the city.

Looking at the sky he judged it to be late morning. He turned to the woman leading the TRAT forces, intending to put her in command and join the force hunting Kesler in the north. "Lieutenant, you're in charge. Have the corpses identified and report to western command tonight; I'll handle the rest then."

She nodded and removed her helmet, but a heavy earth tremor silenced them both. The distant sounds of yet another explosion followed, this one far larger than the first two, emerged from the western coastal districts.

"Never ends, does it?" she said with a grimace. Finally something he could agree with. She left his side and began shouting at the men to prepare a defensive position while they waited for new orders.

It came as a surprise, considering the situation, when it was his personal phone and not his wrist communicator that they used, though he was sure he'd be wanted elsewhere. He responded with a curt "Yes," and heard a melancholic young woman's voice. "Morrent's busy, he wants you back at the command centre. Like, now. Half the coast is in flames. We're not at war, are we?"

After their initial meeting he'd done what he could to improve Miranda Pretsin's life. It was, to Gail's mind, his fault for training the woman who'd ruined her life and failing to see her betrayal; the least he could do to atone was to take responsibility for her welfare. "Calm down. Tell him I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he replied, ignoring her question. Half the coast in flames, he wondered? Surely that was hyperbole. With a nod to the TRAT commander he returned to the convoy and began the journey to the command centre through the heavily guarded city streets.

The scale of the disaster on the coast only became apparent during the ascent to western command. The western sky was choked with thick black smoke pouring from an enormous fire. It was a target he'd believed safe, one of those critical pieces of infrastructure needed by any force that hoped to hold the city. The car slowed and he was greeted by two of General Hereson's guards at a rear entrance.

Reaching the general's office on the eighth floor took far too long for Gail's liking. The offices on the ground floor were busier than he'd ever seen them; every way to ascend the upper floors was busy, and every important door had been turned into a makeshift checkpoint.

He finally made it to the much quieter hall directly outside Hereson's office and heard someone running up behind him. He turned around and saw the general's personal assistant, Richard Morrent, make an abrupt stop a metre from him.

"Something wrong?" Gail asked, assuming the answer was yes. Morrent usually found himself extraordinarily busy during times of crisis.

"Before you go in you need to know," he started, "The train yard was just a diversion. The real target was the port fuel depot."

"I'm aware," he replied, slightly exasperated at hearing such underwhelming news.

"That's not the point," Richard replied, and now it was his turn to be frustrated. "Kesler escaped. She wasn't even there to begin with. It was all a setup, you realise? And we confirmed that Kosra's group bombed the northern barracks early this morning, so half the industrial area's burning and we don't even know who to blame. Rumour is a third group's responsible, and we do _not_ need that right now."

"Do we have any leads at all?" Gail began, but Richard shook his head. "Sorry, but I'm not the one to ask. I need to head back to the sixth floor; they're filming an announcement. I sent Miranda to your old SORT team's rooms again. Considering her history I don't want her on the streets right now." He spun around and ran the other away as quickly as he arrived. Although Gail initially disliked the man for his relaxed approach to work, he was coming to appreciate that his dedication simply came in a different form. He was, after all, not a soldier.

A frowning receptionist waved him through without a word while she listened to someone else through an earpiece, scrawling notes furiously on a notepad. Gail paused in front of the door for a brief moment and pressed a hand into his shoulder. He recovered from the injury on Ibis Island quickly despite its severity, but it seemed there would always be a dull ache to remind him of that night. He welcomed the pain. It was a constant reminder of his failure and the work he'd left unfinished.

He found the general standing at his desk arguing with someone through the phone. Seeing Gail close the door behind him and approach he put the phone down without another word.

"This is not going to plan," Hereson said. His jaw was visibly clenched in frustration, but it wasn't as if Gail needed to be told that they were in trouble.

"We could publicly denounce Royce," Gail suggested.

"Oh, he'd love that, I'm sure. If you can't see how that would backfire then I need a new advisor."

Gail wasn't convinced. "Even if he managed to take the city he wouldn't have the strength to hold it. You both know that. If you let this continue we won't just look autocratic: we'll look incompetent."

"Speaking of incompetence, you've had a remarkable lack of success. Kesler escaped today, and I distinctly remember telling you what would happen if she wasn't killed. I suppose you're not to blame. They're far more organised than they should be. This is what happens when the traitor is the head of intelligence. Although, I used to be in that position, so I really ought to have seen it coming and had Anton sent off to the other side of the country years ago. Or I could've blown up his fleet instead of sending him into exile. Perhaps falsified crimes, something so foul nobody could defend him." Hereson continued in this fashion for some time.

And it was true. Though excusable, his limited success was a source of shame. He could only imagine how much harder that was to handle for Hereson as their leader. Was there a better way to approach the situation? He didn't know, and it was a worrying thought. It was easy to see the right path in hindsight.

"You did make an interesting observation, I'll admit," Hereson continued, falling back into his chair with little of the poise expected of men in his position. "He can agitate all he likes, he can even capture a city or two if he likes; all I need to do is fall back and assemble the entirety of the western armies and he's finished. Nobody wins." He threw his hands up as if to emphasise the futility of the plan.

"No, I refuse to believe a word of this revolutionary zeal. I've known the man for too long. He'll be willing to make a deal. Power, influence, command of the south or eastern districts: he can have it. Perhaps a leadership position in the civilian government? Or I'll cut a decade or two off the slow rise to general and that'll be the end of it."

"You can offer so much, sir?" Gail asked, genuinely surprised.

Hereson laughed. "Our only military threats are to the west after the success of our northern campaign. I may not command the entirety of our army, but certainly the majority of it. As for the rest, none of it is out of reach. We can both come out of this as winners. Another manufactured threat should serve to relieve this tension once it's done. Borginia is a likely target, given recent revelations. I'll need to pay them back for this insurrectionist rubbish. Not in my city, that'll be the message, and they'll remember this time."

He turned his head sharply and glared at the intelligence officer turned advisor. "You know central command is demanding answers? They might be figureheads, but without them to hold this country together it'd split apart, each man taking his share. So I played along with their suggestion, and you'll have to do the same."

Gail listened, observed, and was very careful not to make any personal judgments. That wasn't his place, and people failing to do exactly that was why he could look out the general's window and see an inferno devouring a once prosperous industrial district. It reinforced his certainty that anyone who could order such a thing in their own nation could not be allowed to escape unpunished.

"You. You will make the offer," the general said, a thoughtful stare overtaking his irritated air.

"Sir?"

"I'm sending you back to that island. You're going to meet with my old adversary Anton and you're going to work out an arrangement that satisfies both parties. Actually I've already arranged the meeting, but I hadn't considered sending you until now. He respected you, I remember."

Not enough to ever tell me what he was planning, Gail thought with some bitterness. He knew he'd go without complaint even if he privately would have preferred any assignment but that.

"When do I leave?"

"Let's see," he said thoughtfully. 'Well, you leave in three hours. There's not much you can do about the rebels now, even if I do appreciate that report you made. I've had to move my entire operation to this city because of this, you know. There's a ship waiting in the southern port. I had arranged a western exit, but…" he pointed out the window and shrugged.

"Detailed instructions are already in the ship. Anton has already agreed to this, but you can't give them the slightest excuse to think you're hostile. Oh, and if he's not responsive try to get Lieutenant Colonel Anders alone and offer her the exact same deal. If neither of them are even slightly interested we can assume they think they can win by force despite our superior numbers. This is your operation. I don't care what you need to say, but we need a ceasefire or we need more time. We're not the only sector dealing with this, but I was Royce's commander and they expect me to fix it. That'll be all for now."

He gave a stiff nod. Despite his best efforts the displeasure must have showed in his face, because Hereson frowned and had him stay a moment longer.

"There really is nobody else I could entrust this to, and you're not the one who has to explain today to the rest of the nation. Times like these, for all their misery and misfortunate, see men like yourself rise through the ranks faster in a month than you otherwise would have in a decade. We'll speak again when you return."

The descent from the general's office to the pristine parade ground facing the main stairway to the city passed in a blur. Gail's mind was fixed on the idea of returning to the place and confronting Anton Royce and his collection of traitors. Worse, he knew Rick was there. He knew they would meet. It was inevitable. He didn't know how he would react to seeing the man he'd trained and fought with for half a decade under those circumstances. His team, his training, his choices, and it'd come to this. Two dead, and the other two worse than dead. A failure rate of a hundred percent didn't say much for his ability.

"Is something wrong?" a quiet voice asked, and he realised his legs had taken him to the SORT rooms out of habit. Gail looked up and saw the door to his team's rooms was half open and a pale face was staring at him from the darkened room.

He shook his head. "I forgot these aren't my rooms anymore. Old habit."

She opened the door fully. "They're more yours than mine."

He muttered his thanks and entered. The small, shabby room was a complete mess. Filthy dishes filled the sink, the blinds were almost fully drawn, but he ignored that and collapsed onto the tattered old leather couch. The last memory he had of the place was barking orders at Rick and Regina on the day they'd first met Anton Royce. All she'd cared about, he remembered, was whether he was recovering from his injury or not. Had his inability to open up with them, even for a moment, contributed to their desertion? He tried to focus on the present. There was no use dwelling on painful memories.

"I know I already asked, but are you _sure_ there's nothing wrong?" the young woman standing in the doorway asked, a look of mild concern on her face.

His instinct was to ignore her entirely. Unwanted memories of their last meeting here returned and he realised he was doing it again. Someone, for whatever reason, cared enough to ask how he was with good reason, and he treated it as an insult.

"I've been better," he managed to say against all instinct, his voice straining with the effort.

He was a failure. All evidence pointed to this. His SORT team was finished, half killed and half deserted. The most important mission of his life was left unfinished because he couldn't bring himself to tell Regina that Kirk wasn't the only objective. He'd failed to see Royce's betrayal despite knowing the man for over a decade. He'd failed Rick by leaving him to deal with his internal torments alone, blaming him for daring to hope that Royce's talk of revolution was true. He'd failed James Hereson by not finding a single one of the targets; the general's willingness to share the culpability was a source of even more shame. He'd failed the miserable young woman in front of him before they'd even met.

Worst of all, he'd completely and utterly failed Regina. He'd relied on her extraordinary talent for years. He took everything she had to give and more, and what did he give her in return? Nothing. Even knowing she was to be arrested, the most he could do was petition the general for a pardon, which he generously granted.

And even then he knew on some level it wasn't enough. That day at the funeral ceremony he'd found her alone and uncomfortable at an outdoor café. Even before he arrived it was obvious she desperately wanted to leave and all he could do was engage in the worst kind of small talk before leaving her to be arrested. He'd wanted to tell her. What he needed to say was obvious, but he was too weak to do it. All he had to do was say it. _You're going to be taken in for questioning, but I've handled it. You don't need to worry, just cooperate and you won't be charged._ But of course he didn't. What reason did she have to believe him? None. And yet she'd believed whichever opportunist confronted her at that hotel. _Harper. _That was the name, he was sure.

"You really don't look so good. Do I need to call the medics?" Miranda Pretsin asked, leaning in to look at his face. She seemed genuinely concerned and he hated it.

He shook his head again. "This place brings up its share of bad memories. I'll be leaving soon anyway." Slightly easier the second time. "Why's it so dark?"

"Sorry. I was asleep," she replied, a hint of discomfort catching his attention. The blinds opened slightly and the room filled with a dim light.

If how he felt was bad, she simply radiated misery. Her clothes hung loosely off her emaciated frame, she looked as if standing were difficult, and her expression showed a disturbing mix of lethargy and restlessness.

Yet another failure to add to the list, he thought, but that was pathetic. This was the present. "That question. What's your answer?"

She stared at him. "I'm no better or worse than ever."

He knew that answer all too well. "Do _you_ need the medics?" he asked, though he found it difficult to say why that seemed appropriate.

"_No_," she said, jumping back to the far end of the room.

"Stand in the light," Gail said, restraining himself from making it an order. With a task to complete his muscles began to work once more and he rose to his feet. He pulled the blinds fully open; she looked absolutely terrible.

"There's nothing you can do, so just drop it. My father got himself killed trying to fix me, so don't think anything you've got to say's going to do it." The hatred in her voice was enough to force his own problems out of his mind. Even so, he knew enough to guess at her meaning. Her symptoms were consistent with psychological illness. Her father, despite a respectable career, died in poverty chasing a future free of financial concerns and a home on the coast for his family. Specialist care in Alvernia was extraordinarily expensive. He looked at the window and then back at her. Was this why?

"Look, I'm grateful for the help, but I want you to forget you saw me like this. I'm not going back to a hospital. Not this time."

Well, there was the way out he always wanted. It'd served him so well with Rick and Regina. They'd likely despised him for years. "No."

Miranda was saved from answering by the room's phone. "Yes, he's here," she said, masking every hint of emotion. "Right. I'll tell him."

She delicately set the receiver down. "You've got a boat to catch, apparently."

Ibis Island filled his thoughts and brought the taste of bile to the back of his throat. If he and Regina were to blame for this then how could Royce avoid judgement? All of this was caused by him and his ambition. How much suffering would it take before he was satisfied?

"Come with me," he said, and it emerged in a harsh whisper.

"Where?"

"I'm going to confront Anton Royce. You saw what happened today, and yesterday, and how many days before. This comes down to him."

"Why would you possibly think I could convince a revolutionary leader to stop murdering people?" The sheer absurdity of his request had distracted her, at the very least.

"I know him. What happened to your family is everything he despises about Alvernia, and look at what his methods achieved. Your father was on his staff for a decade. He needs to answer for what he's done. He needs to _see_ what he's done." There was another reason, of course. If he left now it would admitting that he was too weak to change the parts of himself he was coming to despise. And if she killed herself, as was surely possible for anyone in her position…

She stared at his, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You know what? I don't see how that could be any worse than staying here."

Still, the decision was no easier. Not when they reached the port. Not when Alvernia's western shore vanished in the distance, and not when the scout ship arrived to inspect them well before they reached Ibis Island. He'd nearly called a medical team, but his life had been an unending series of poor decisions. What right did he have to ignore her own choices?

They were escorted to an exterior port on the eastern side of Ibis Island. Royce's fleet, which had grown to more than twice the size of the one he'd watched leave Merestan, was concentrated around the northern coast, but Gail remembered a cargo port on the south side that emerged in the lowest level of the facility. Signs of a brief but violent fight could be seen in several places. The research facility's second floor had been all but destroyed; the heliport and hangar were burned out, and large sections of the forest had been cleared.

"He's going to kill us," Miranda muttered, her eyes fixed on the heavily armed soldiers waiting at the port.

"He'll hear what I've got to say. After that I doubt we'll come to any harm. It's not how he works."

After a second, even more thorough, inspection of their transportation, Gail was greeted by a young man wearing a TRAT officer's uniform. "Well, we can't find anything that shouldn't be there. "Welcome to Ibis Island. I'm First Lieutenant Morton, tasked with escorting you during your short stay."

"No need. I've been here before."

The younger man smiled, clearly unconcerned. "Then I think we have a mutual friend." He glanced over at Miranda. "Nobody mentioned you were bringing a guest, but the Colonel said she's fine to enter." His charms were utterly wasted on her; to his credit he quickly realised the truth of this.

Despite the changing seasons Ibis Island remained warm and sunny, to the point where his thick clothes began to feel uncomfortable no sooner than they'd reached the main entrance. Walking past soldier after soldier, men and women who'd been his allies only a few short months ago, was difficult for Gail, but even worse for the woman he'd brought with him. Not for the first time he wondered if he was condemned to unending interpersonal failure.

"So, where first? I don't mean to be forward, but you know Rick, right? I can take you to see him first, if you'd-"Morton began to say, clearly imagining he was doing Gail a favour. He wasn't, and the older man cut him off to say so.

"I have nothing to say to him."

"He said you'd say that. Was worth a try, anyway," Morton replied with a shrug. "Thing is, the Colonel's waiting for you down below. We don't use floor B3 for much. Structural problems, lack of utility, you can guess, but we'll get to the meeting place, a security office on the generator floor, through that level. Should be nice and private."

His chatter was beginning to irritate them both. It was strange for him to see the facility in such different circumstances, though its new occupants were responding to the intrusion with a mix of curiosity and veiled hostility.

They used one of the two elevators, both now working, he observed, to descend to the lowest floor of the research facility.

"I've never seen anything like this," Miranda murmured as they entered a cavernous corridor. Borginian construction techniques were truly impressive, he had to admit.

"I said the same thing, you know," Morton said, a slight smirk showing on his face. "Compared to home, Borginia must be quite a place."

"We've been enemies with them for decades," Gail stated.

"Yeah, you're not wrong, but we're trying to change that. We've even got a Borginian Ambassador now. She was a prisoner captured in a raid, and now's she's an ally and a friend. Nice story, huh?"

He didn't dignify that with a response, and they remained silent until they reached the stairway to floor B2. Miranda stared curiously at their escort after that, though even Gail found his claim of alliance with Borginia difficult to ignore. They took a longer route than was necessary, likely to keep him away from the generator.

The thick steel plates acting as doors unsealed, sliding into the floor to give them access to the security station separating the Third Energy research laboratories from the rest of the facility. His eyes adjusted to the dim blue lighting. It did little to soothe his nerves.

"What is this?" Royce was absent, but he recognised the woman sitting on a row of consoles at the back.

"I told him you wouldn't want to speak to your old friend, but he just didn't listen," she said, looking at nobody in particular.

Was this deliberate? Royce had used Anders' cold indifference as a shield for years, and she was always just one step below him in rank. If she was here he would have to be close.

Morton waited at the door, evidently tasked with observing. Miranda stood at his side, one glance from the lieutenant colonel enough to keep her as far away as she could get.

"That you're here means James is worried," she stated, leaving no room for argument. "And it was a complete waste of time. Nothing he can offer will suffice."

"How arrogant. What is it you really want? He's willing to compromise but you'll tear your own nation in half because it's just not enough." Gail replied, not bothering to hide his disgust.

Anders nearly smiled. Not quite, but it was closer than usual. "Our nation deserves to be torn apart. The people agree with us, as I'm sure you must know by now. What do you offer? Nothing but poverty and an endless series of pointless wars. I never liked you, I'm afraid. So much stubbornness, and all for nothing of worth."

"And what have you achieved? You'll take a city, maybe two, maybe more. You'll kill thousands. And even if you survive the counterattack, which you won't, then what? You'll have turned a puppet state into a military dictatorship, and I don't care how benevolent you think you are."

"Legitimate concerns, no doubt. There will be a period of transition, but before that we'll maintain control for long enough to sweep the current leadership away." She leaned in, eyes shining with excitement. "That includes our pathetic shell of a civilian government."

"And you think you're the one to make it happen? We both know what you've done. How many people have you had killed, and how many of them deserved it? We both know what you've done."

"None of them deserved it. You think Borginia ever actually threatened us? What about the independent states to our north that just wouldn't cooperate? You were fortunate enough to avoid that one, I recall. The things we did to those people were indescribable. Remember, Gail, the government you're protecting is responsible for all of it, even if I was the one to make it happen. Oh, but how could we dare protest? That was the government's view, wasn't it? Just stay quiet and pretend it's not happening. It must be so easy to live without a spine."

The spite in her soft voice was one thing, but to be called spineless for making decisions that isolated him from everything he'd ever wanted? He rose to his feet, jaw clenched, tired of looking at her face and listening to her insults. Morton's hand edged toward the pistol on his hip, slowly and carefully, but he wasn't going to attack her.

"Enough," a much calmer voice said at the door, accompanied by a sharp gasp from the woman hiding behind Morton's armour.

Gail looked over his shoulder, but there was no need. He recognised the voice all too well. Anton Royce was standing in the doorway, obviously having listened to the entire conversation. He stepped into the room. Taller even than Gail, Royce's imposing figure had grown more gaunt since their last meeting. His pale eyes fixed themselves on Anders, who nodded a response to the message that stare was supposed to communicate.

"You'll have to forgive me for that, but she has a way of getting to people's true feelings, don't you think?" he said.

He didn't respond.

The Colonel stopped and looked in the shadows behind Dylan. "They said there was a woman with you, but I never thought," he said, voice trailing off at the sight of a stone-faced Miranda Pretsin. "I'm surprised you're here," he finally said. An obvious statement, perhaps, but if Royce knew what Gail suspected, that could easily have another meaning.

"I doubt it, but what difference does it make?" she replied. Her lack of fear or subservience attracted Anders' interest, which was rarely a good thing in his experience.

"You see?" she asked, addressing Gail. "The girl looks like a corpse and she's still got a spine. It's not so hard."

"Enough_," _Royce snapped, and his drastic change in tone silenced them all. So she'd finally crossed a line, and even Morton's jaw was clenched in anger. Was it so obvious?

"I know why you're here, but I can do nothing for you. Your father was not murdered on my orders." He turned back to Gail. "After all this time, do you actually believe I could order what happened to this girl's family? Father executed from behind, her mother's throat cut on the street, and for what?"

"No,' he said, "but you need to understand. You think she's alone? That _you_ of all people would claim this moral high ground is absurd. Have you seen what you've done to your own country in the last month alone? Of course you haven't." He sneered at Anders. 'You think I'm spineless? You're the one masking your own ambitions because you can't bear to admit that you might just want more power than you've got. Everywhere you go, everything you do, you leave hundreds like her behind. Lives ruined, families shattered. You think being able to kill without remorse is enough to prove you're not a coward?"

And now it was her turn to restrain anger. He knew they could kill him, and he knew they wouldn't. Anton Royce stared, clearly debating something with himself.

"Sir," a quiet voice asked from the entrance, breaking the spell of silence. Morton was standing with Miranda, an uncomfortable look overtaking his professional blank stare. Gail saw why immediately. She was shaking lightly, eyes fixed on the wall behind both senior officers.

"Take her outside and call a doctor. Tell them to look in our personnel files under Pretsin; her father's file should be of use," Royce said, visibly troubled. Morton paused, glancing over at Gail. "Go on," he continued. "Gail is a personal friend of mine and our guest."

"This is why he betrayed me, isn't it?" Royce asked when they'd left, his authoritative air vanishing. "I knew, of course, much like I knew the backgrounds of all my staff. Still, such an oversight... it may have been a mistake to bring her here."

Gail nodded. "He did it for his family. Good intentions ruined by poor methods."

"Don't you see this is what we're fighting for? A world in which a man doesn't have to betray his friends and colleagues to pay for his daughter's medical care?"

"As I said. Good intentions ruined by poor methods."

"Then tell me something else. Who did kill her parents? Hereson was my guess until they told me his secretary had been executed too. But they're blaming it on your friend, the one I made a lieutenant? Why would she have done that?"

Gail knew, or thought he knew, enough to answer. Would it be a betrayal? He was too tired to care, and he knew Royce was more likely to solve this mystery than he was.

"I investigated this for the general. We came to the conclusion, based on evidence left behind by John Pretsin, that Edward Kirk survived the foundry demolition. He connected several officers to the man. You were one, as was your personal assistant. Regina was another. Kesler was another. None of those names were unusual. The last, Frank Harper, was sent here with the first wave. That name is my only lead."

Anders ran a hand over her face. "And here I thought he'd simply deserted, as he always threatened he would."

Royce sighed. "I warned you. Efficiency, capability, intelligence: it all means nothing if a man is unstable."

"You know nothing about it," she shot back. "Still, that puts Kesler's news in a different light." She looked directly at Gail. "Your friend Regina was with him. This week."

He understood her implication. "So the fuel depot was their work?" It pained him to even think it.

Anders nodded and stood up, head turned to conceal her amusement.

"When he contacted my forces I offered him the chance to prove his commitment. His choice of the depot sent a clear message: whoever holds the city will find their occupation much more difficult without it. Hereson, us, anyone."

"Leave this to me," Anders stated, turning back to face them. "I'm to blame for not having him dealt with a long time ago."

"You understand what this means?" Gail said, realising this problem affected them both even if they were enemies. "We went to all the trouble of finding Kirk only to lose him to… to what?"

"_Warning: fuel leak detected on floor B3. Evacuate immediately. Repeat, fuel leak detected on floor B3. Evacuate immediately" _Gail immediately recognised the metallic female voice as that of the facility's automated security system.

"What? We spent weeks dismantling that ruined generator, this shouldn't be happening," Royce said, his fist curling from frustration.

Gail watched the security screens for input, but they were only limited to the second underground floor. He tried to change that until he felt the barrel of a pistol pressed to his stomach.

"So, you kept us talking for long enough to do what, Gail?" Anders whispered in his ear, her soft voice filled with eagerness. "Perhaps you're working with Harper? No, he'd have killed you. You're too stubborn for someone like him to manipulate, you see. Tell me now and you-"

"I said_ enough_," Royce said, crossing the room within a second and pulling the two of them apart as if they were made of paper. For the briefest second Gail saw a flash of something like disgust on the Colonel's face. Anders held the pistol at her side, the look in her eyes enough to tell him she likely hadn't even believed he was the cause of the leak.

"_Warning: sealing elevator access to floor B3. Contamination origin: main generator. All remaining personnel, evacuate immediately"_

The doors burst open and she held the pistol at the procession of people who stormed in for a second before lowering it. Morton was back, as was Miranda and a woman in a medic's uniform. Another woman with dark hair and foreign features waited at the back with… well, he couldn't say he was surprised. At the sight of each other he and Rick stopped, both unable to speak or move, before the younger man shook his head and saluted.

"Well, what's the situation?" the Colonel asked, looking at Rick for answers.

"I'm unsure, sir," Rick said. The technical expert was having an incredibly difficult time keeping his gaze away from Gail, and it seemed as if everyone in the room knew it. "Floor B3 was unstaffed except for two guards at the port. Neither have evacuated."

"So get the hazmat teams down there before this gets any worse."

"That's not it, sir. Shortly after arriving here I updated the security systems to report when certain areas of the facility were accessed." The Borginian woman put a laptop on the desk and opened it. A map of the entire facility was shown, with every door opening logged. Royce watched for a moment until the door from the generator room to the control area was logged as unsealed.

"A fuel leak would kill anyone in that area, but someone's down there," Rick pointed out. As difficult as it was, Gail felt a distinct amount of pride that at least someone he'd trained had found a place for himself.

"We can't bring in support from the upper levels,' Anders pointed out. "I'll handle this personally, sir." The door to the backup generator was opened, and Rick's program blasted a sharp alert when the door to the weapons storage was opened.

Royce looked at them. "It seems we have no choice. I'll coordinate our security above from here; this may be more than a mere intrusion. Morton, Rick, and Weaver: you're with her. I'll send the B2 guards after you. Take every precaution. Ms Pretsin, you'll stay with me. We'll keep you safe, you have my word." She sank down against the wall by the door, but seemed undisturbed by his words.

"I'd like to go with them," Gail said. If not Borginia, the only person who knew what was hidden down there was… but Kirk would never risk capture. Not like this. Could _she_ be there?

"I can't afford to refuse. You know why as well as I do, Gail. No weapons, just observation."

It felt better than he'd ever imagined, running down those cavernous halls once more. To have purpose, and a goal, and something to hunt down and attack. They descended the stairs and used the transport passages at the rear to bypass the generator and its supposed fuel leak. It was a critical design flaw, they all realised, to not include a stair from the ground floor to the lowest level.

"Orders, sir?" asked Morton as they approached the thick steel shutter outside the weapons storage area.

"Approach with caution. Any sign of a fuel leak and you fall back immediately. Priority is the special weapons storage. Capture or kill, I'll leave that to you. Move out," Anders ordered, her soft tone replaced by the harsh voice of an experienced commander.

"Lieutenant Colonel," Rick said, attracting her attention with a portable screen. "We're cut off from the upper floors. All elevators disabled." She grimaced at the news but remained silent.

Rick approached the shutter's control panel, the same woman following every move he made. Both of them had pistols, and as he pulled the activation lever they made full eye contact for the first time. The shutter on the opposite side was rolling down and two men sprinted through, narrowly avoiding a burst of shots from Anders and Morton. One was carrying a thick black case.

Gail sprinted through the opening first and took cover behind the same ruined truck he'd seen on his first visit, but the rest of them were determined to follow before the shutter sealed their targets on the other side.

Without the time to make a full assessment he rolled under the shutter moments before it closed. As expected the controls had been sabotaged. "Take them out," Anders shouted as one of the men slipped into the control room. She seized the rifle from Morton's back and fired at the other one, catching his upper thigh and forcing him to leap to safety. Again, the door sealed behind them.

"Hold on," Rick shouted, running up to an access panel on its side. Within moments their path was clear, as he knew was inevitable. He stayed at the back, feeling all but naked without a weapon. There was something else, a warning in the back of his mind, that pursing armed targets in this manner was incredibly dangerous.

Morton cleared the small control room, but they'd already left for the cavernous hall on the other side, as proved by the trail of blood from the wounded man's leg.

He pulled Rick aside by the shoulder. It was so much easier to speak when working. "Rick, you saw that case?"

The younger man nodded, his expression grim. "It's got to be the Stabilizer. We're going to have to work together, even if this is the last time."

They entered the cargo hall beyond with all precautions taken, but it made no difference. A veritable mountain of broken parts and sheet metal, the remains of the facility's main generator, had turned the warehouse into a maze. They'd no sooner seen the trail of blood leading into one section than four men ambushed them, each from a different direction. It was a skilful manoeuvre, one that he would've been impressed to observe from an experienced operative. Morton was the only one to respond in time, firing a burst to his right. A single return shot tore through his upper body and the man fell to the floor gasping for breath, hands held to a spot below his left shoulder.

It was over within ten seconds. He even counted to be sure. They were all disarmed and thrown to the floor. Their captors worth facemasks to cover their mouths and each wore a distinctive grey jacket. There was something to be said, he thought, for the fact that after all his struggles to remain true to the rightful authorities he was still going to die fighting with Anton Royce and his forces.

The silence was broken by a mocking clap from the man standing in front. One of his comrades in the back fell to his knees, blood seeping from a bullet wound in his thigh. "I was expecting this to be a gunfight, if you must know. That you actually fell for it? Absolutely pitiful." His voice was seething with undisguised contempt.

Anders rose to her feet, undisturbed by the submachine gun aimed at her chest. Gail did the same, unafraid to die. The lone woman in their captor's force pulled their weapons away with her boot and the wounded man threw them toward the broken cargo elevator's entry shutter. The black case lay by the back wall.

"There's no need to hide yourself from me. Not anymore." Anders took a step closer and the leader raised his pistol, a slight movement away from ending half their rebellion's leadership. The woman in grey visibly scowled at her presence.

His grey eyes looked between them. Rick and his Borginian friend, Morton as he slowly bled out on the floor, the lieutenant colonel, and Gail himself, before he shrugged.

"How could I refuse an opportunity as promising as this?" his left hand reached up and removed the mask, revealing a harsh face that Gail had seen only in print. The spite communicated by his slight smirk was highlighted by the intensity of his stare, fixed on the woman in front of him.

Both Rick and his companion gasped with shock and Harper looked over, as if he'd only just remembered them. "Well, I certainly didn't see this coming. Not only didn't you kill her, you actually _befriended_ her?" He burst into laughter. "We've got more in common than you think, Rick_._" More laughter followed, as he were unable to believe his luck. Notably, Gail thought, two of his accomplices glanced at each other. Concern? Morton was coughing, a spreading pool of blood surrounding the young officer.

Harper finally stopped laughing and stared again at all of them. "I've already won, you know, and I'm not the type to say that lightly."

Anders snorted. "What have you won? The only thing you could ever do was destroy. People, lives, places."

The smirk was replaced by an expression filled with hate; Harper smashed the base of her jaw with his pistol, faltered a moment, and slammed his forehead into hers with a sharp crack. Anders spat out a broken tooth, her face smeared with blood, and he threw her to the floor. "If I _ever_ have to hear you condescend to me again I'll cut out your tongue," he snarled, kicking her ribs with his boot to emphasise his words and the contempt in them.

Rick jumped to his feet in such a rage that he ignored the woman holding a submachine gun to his chest. "_That's enough,_" he shouted, the indignation in his voice echoing throughout the hall.

Harper turned and stared. "It'll never be enough. If you knew what I did you'd cut her throat on the spot."

But Rick ignored that. He was too angry for debate, too disgusted for compromise. "What do you even want? Just take it and go. What have we done to you? Can't you see Dylan's going to die if you don't let us help him?" His voice was frantic, hands shaking.

"Of course he's going to die. Everyone I meet dies," Harper replied. All signs of the uncontrollable rage he'd shown while beating Anders had vanished behind his mask of a smile.

"Is that what happened to Regina?" Gail finally asked. He refused to sit there and listen a moment longer without knowing.

Harper slammed a boot into Anders' back when she tried to rise. "Oh, no, I didn't kill _her_. Why would I do that? We're such good friends, and friends don't just kill each other. " He was barely holding in more laughter.

"Then tell me. Why you? What do you want? What could you possibly have said to make her help you?" It was difficult not to lunge forward and snap his neck, even knowing he'd be killed instantly.

"Why not me? I was the first person to ever go out of my way to do something for her, you know. That means a great deal more than you ever realised, clearly. Leaving your friend and prodigy to be _arrested_? Beaten and tortured and raped and who knows what else they'd have done. You ought to get on your knees and thank me. Or perhaps she wasn't receptive to your charms, so you thought there was an easier way? But you're not that type, are you?" Harper sneered, his piercing grey eyes locked onto his adversary.

Gail was saved from a quick death at the hands of Harper's gunners by the heavy slam of a door. An older man in a suit was staring at them from the entrance to the backup generator. Upon realising his allies were in control he ran across at a slow pace, but was forced to the floor by a burst of gunfire from the far entrance.

In hindsight the moments that followed remained a blur to all involved. Gail distinctly remembered a TRAT soldier turning the corner only to be shot in the head. The three that followed took cover, gunning down the wounded insurgent instantly and entering a protracted firefight with the other three. He recalled seeing Weaver pull Rick to the floor, the two of them holding each other as each side traded shots overhead. Lieutenant Morton was beginning to slow, his movements weaker each minute. The sight of his blonde hair soaked in his own blood as he lay there helpless was particularly poignant.

Ultimately the pitiful reinforcements proved themselves a poor match for Harper's experienced professionals. The effectiveness of his team, limited as they were by numbers, showed they'd been working together for years.

When the shooting stopped only two fighters remained. Harper himself and the young woman in the grey jacket.

And yet instead of turning back to laugh at them, his first thoughts were the older man in the suit. He'd been shot in the arm before falling and their adversary almost seemed panicked. "It's done, you don't need to worry about me, you need to leave," he heard the older man murmur.

Anders stood up, one hand on her knee for leverage, the other holding a bloodstained piece of metal. If she was in any pain from Harper's assault it didn't show. His companion watched her with the submachine gun, growing visibly more anxious by the minute. "So Kosirim's here too?" she muttered, spitting out more blood.

She made eye contact, and for the first time without disdain or malice, before her gaze shifted to the gunner, and then to Harper. He glanced at Rick and saw him desperately trying to stop the bleeding from Morton's wound, his friend at his side the entire time.

Harper turned back, the tall man in the suit at his side with a firm hand wrapped around his injured arm. "That's our cue to leave. I wanted more time to play with you the way you did me, Anders, but this is going to have to do." He raised the pistol, a maniacal smirk on his face at the prospect of killing the woman, but it faltered, and the hand holding the pistol twitched as if uncertain. And Gail followed his gaze, and when he saw what he'd done he realised he was, in every way, an irredeemable failure of a man. The miserable woman he'd allowed to come with him was standing before them, the bodies of the TRAT soldiers on either side of her and her parents' murderer glaring at her with a pistol in his hand.

He turned back to Gail in a frenzy, his controlled facade showing itself for the mask it was. "_You think this changes anything_?" he shouted, eyes burning with hatred.

With his back turned even for a second Anders slammed the shard of metal into his back with as much force as her injured body could generate and pulled the pistol from his hands. His ally turned and fired, but her burst was redirected at the ground when she saw their proximity. The window of opportunity was less than a second and it was more than enough. Gail's fist hit her skull with a sickening crunch and she collapsed to the floor with a scream of pain. His second priority was the black case, which he seized and threw to Rick with a single motion.

"Still think I'm spineless?"

Anders turned back, the gun pressed to Harper's head and grinned at him. "That's for you to decide." Her dark blue uniform was stained with blood and her eyes were wild with exhilaration. Gail held the submachine gun to the injured woman's back, his hand on the trigger. They were all watching. Rick was leaning against the back wall, a hand shrouding his face from the outside world. Weaver stood at his side, her expression grim. And there she was. Miranda Pretsin was staring into Harper's eyes, and Gail lowered the gun again.

"You're the one, aren't you?" she said. No tears, no accusing tone, just curiosity.

"I am. I murdered your mother. I lured your father into a trap and shot him in the back of the head."

"Why?" Her voice cracked, but only barely.

He laughed again, without the slightest hint of humour. "Because they were in my way. If they didn't die we would have, and I couldn't allow that before our work is complete. It was a selfish choice, but it had to be done."

"That's enough, Harper," Gail said. His words echoed around the hall, silencing them both. Anders pressed the gun harder into the back of his head. Miranda shrank back, pressing herself against the wall.

"Oh, but it's not. You think I'm a monster? All it took was ten minutes and your precious Regina was right there with me. _We_ killed them, just as much as you've killed me when this loathsome cunt finally puts the bullet in my head." He spat the words, but Anders showed no reaction to the insult.

"I don't believe it. Regina wouldn't do that," Rick said, almost in a whisper. The troubling thing was, Gail did believe it.

"Why? What do you think she exists for? A soldier, a scientist, a mother? At the end of the day, they're not so different, all meat. But you know what I like? She _knows_ what she is and she hates it. She doesn't want to be a murderer, but what else could she be? I admire that more than you'll ever know."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her she was going to be arrested. That she'd been abandoned. I said we had to stop Pretsin or we'd all die, and it was true. He was going to put a bullet in Kirk's head, and do you know how much effort it took to get him alone?"

Gail wanted to respond; Harper didn't give him an opportunity. "But she needed me, you understand? Someone who understood how it works and was willing to share. Someone who wasn't _you. _She didn't ever think you were on her side, you know? Knew you were in on Hereson's arrest plot all along. Even Kirk has more appeal than you. " He laughed, using his last opportunity to hit every weak spot he could. "Since I'm about to expire why not be honest? She wants nothing to do with you, or with Royce, or with Hereson. Only me. I fucked her too, did you know that? I know from experience, it feels great to wake up after a lifetime of lies. Perhaps she wanted to celebrate her freedom, what do you think?" It was too much. He had to be lying.

"You've said enough," Anders stated, pulling him aside. "Do you know, I thought pulling you – and you", she said, with a glance at Kosirim, "from the internment camps and putting your skills to better use was so generous, and look at the trouble you've caused."

She pushed him aside. "Evidently you'll have to be punished, and I'm not quite ready to kill you." She turned around and shot Kosirim in the leg. He fell to the floor and looked up at Harper with a tired smile. Only then did Gail see the small black box in his hand: far too late to prevent his thumb from flipping a small switch on its side. Anders looked back at Harper with a sneer and pulled the trigger again, firing a single shot through the old man's head.

Harper fell silent the moment his friend died. His grey eyes were fixed on the corpse; the slowly spreading pool of blood; the pieces of skull and brain littering the floor beneath him.

Gail was a veteran soldier; death was something he'd come to expect. Even so, what she'd done felt undeniably perverse. Executing a man not for his crimes, not because he was a danger, not even to further a plan: she did it because she knew it would make someone suffer.

"Not a bad response, if underwhelming," Anders said, deep in thought. "I expect we'll have to work on that. Was it fifteen years you'd known each other? Something of a father figure, I recall." Her hand shifted, aiming at the injured woman laying by Gail's boot, her long brown hair caked in blood from the impact. "Does this make you feel anything? A dear friend? You know pretending not to care won't make any difference, but still you insist on this act?" She sighed as if he were an utter disappointment.

The injured woman looked up at Anders, clearly terrified, and tried to crawl toward the corpse of one of her allies and the pistol by his side, but the lieutenant colonel shot her outstretched arm and looked back at Harper, ignoring the woman's scream entirely. His hands were shaking, but he refused to speak. "Still nothing? No pleading this time? Well, if that's-"

Gail saw Rick stand up and gestured at him to remain still. Even he couldn't watch any more. "What do you think you're doing, Anders? Kill him or take them as captives. This is beneath you." How could someone so sadistic ever hope to change the world for the better? Even his own hatred for the man was souring in the face of her brutality. Anders stared at him for a long moment. "You should know better than to interfere in the affairs of others by now, Gail."

Harper suddenly looked up. "Do you understand now?" He was staring directly at Gail as if the rest of them were utterly inconsequential. Gail met his stare but remained silent until the captive looked away. "We'll be parting ways now. I'm afraid there will be more orphans by the time this is done," Harper said in a much softer, almost apologetic tone. Gail looked back, but his grey eyes were fixed on Miranda Pretsin, leaning against the back wall with her head in her hands and a look of shock etched into her eyes.

He realised a second too late. "_Get down_," he shouted, falling to the floor as the entire building began to shake. The proximity of the blast replaced every noise with a sharp ringing in his ears, but they were all thrown to the ground by the violence of the blast. The lights flickered off and on before failing entirely, though he was sure he heard someone firing a pistol in the darkness.

By the time the shaking stopped it was over. They sat there in darkness for some time, unwilling to break the silence. They all knew he was gone.

After perhaps an hour the emergency lighting was restored, filling the hall with a dull red light that only served to highlight the butchery.

"He got away," Rick whispered. His eyes were filled with tears, his hands grasping the black case. Weaver's hand was on the dying lieutenant's chest, but there was nothing else they could do for him.

"Of course he ran. That's all he can ever do," Anders said, pushing Kosirim's corpse aside with her boot. Her blonde hair was loose and stained with blood, but her mannerisms were cold and polite once more.

Anton Royce was watching from the control room entrance. How much he'd seen Gail didn't know, and he didn't bother asking. He didn't want to know.

The woman he'd knocked to the floor had also vanished. Gail knew the facility too well; they'd have used the underground port, and his suspicions were confirmed he found the port guards dead at their posts and a log showing an allied cargo ship had left within the last hour. He took the opportunity to stare at the calm water and make sense of what he'd just witnessed, enjoying a rare hour entirely alone.

"Gail," a soft voice said from behind.

He turned to face the man as an equal. "I'm to blame. For you, and for her."

"Stubborn as ever, I see," Rick replied, attempting a smile and failing. "I joined Royce because I believe in what he's doing. You stayed behind for the same reason. We've got to have enough faith in Regina to say she must've done the same, right?"

"How could she ever choose _him_ over us?" The question had come over him like a spell of paralysis. Even during Harper's taunts, all he could do was listen, the accusations repeating themselves over and over. He'd never had a personal enemy. Not one of the men he'd fought had done so out of personal malice. Harper's voice was like a weapon in itself, twisting inside his thoughts and drawing out every fear, every worry, and exposing them in the guise of truth.

"That's what we'll have to ask her. Regina's always made the right call in the past, and I don't know about you, but there was something else going on in there so I'm going to reserve judgement. I don't want to fight you, Gail, but we have to follow our ideals, and so does she. We're all at risk now."

He still knew what he ought to ask. "Your friend. The lieutenant. Did he..." he trailed off, leaving it unsaid.

Rick shook his head. "They're operating now, but I don't know. He lost a lot of blood even if the bullet didn't hit his lung."

"I'd tell you not to give up on him yet, but I know you too well." He nodded. "As for Regina, I'll have to trust you this time."

Rick smiled in earnest this time. The gratitude he felt for Gail's words showed in his eyes. "And I'll have to trust you. You're going back to Merestan first, right? So you've got the chance to find her before I do."

"Um, excuse me," a quiet woman said from the port's entrance. Miranda and Weaver were watching them from the entrance.

"I never should have brought you here. I apologise," he said, lowering his head in shame.

"I needed to meet him, and I did." Miranda said. "I... he wasn't what I expected him to be," she added in a near whisper. His first priority upon return would be her safety. The general owed him that much. Nobody who'd witnessed what she just had, least of all someone in her condition, could be left alone after their first exposure to violence on that level; even if their adversary hadn't threatened her, her appearance had certainly caused an erratic shift in his behaviour.

"Oh, Gail, this is Melissa Weaver. We tried to kill each other; now we're friends. And she's our Borginian Ambassador." He couldn't help but smile while saying it and Gail knew he was getting far too attached as usual. "Harper was there when we met," he added in a far less cheerful tone. "He saved me from her during the first attack, and I saved him. I never would have guessed he would do this."

Gail raised an eyebrow, but the ambassador wasn't interested. "Strange how these things turn out, isn't it? Still, before we start celebrating isn't this," she said, holding up the black case, "supposed to have something in it?" The case was entirely empty, hanging off her finger while she stared at them in utter confusion.

Nothing was said for a moment. Both of them had to process the enormity of the mistake they'd made and the unending sequence of potential consequences. After all the effort they put into that trap he'd been so sure that was their plan, but...

"If the Stabilizer's not in there…" Rick whispered, staring at Gail in the vain hope that the older man would have a solution.

He didn't. "He tricked us. Even if we'd killed him, he'd already sent the devices back to the ship."

"And does that mean what I think it means?"

"If it does, it's not going to matter how large an army you find. We're all finished."


	15. Chapter 15

_Note: If this wasn't obvious already it would be irresponsible not to make it clear now. Based on the rating guide this site uses this story is best considered 'MA'. This will be especially true from this point on. Expect graphic violence, physical and psychological torture, references to sexual abuse, and similar. I don't intend to throw these things in gratuitously, but both the story and backstory rely heavily on that content which up until now has mostly been implied. I'll post a short spoiler-free warning above chapters containing this content, if only because the rating system doesn't allow me to express it there.  
_

"I must've neglected to mention this. More likely you're perfectly aware and did this to spite me," an unjustifiably exhausted man said, gasping for breath with his hands on his knees for support, "but my physical ability is not one of my better attributes."

"Oh, really? I had no idea. When was the last time you even saw the sun?" his companion called back from her position in front of him.

"Does today count, or is there too much smoke for that?" he said, standing up with a grimace.

"It'll have to do. Enjoy it while it lasts, I don't think we're going to get another opportunity," she said with a glance over her shoulder. Making sure he hadn't dropped dead from exhaustion, no doubt.

Despite his admittedly embarrassing physical condition, Edward Kirk found he indeed was coming to enjoy it as she so clearly hoped he would. With a tremendous amount of effort he pulled himself up, covered in sweat despite the mildness of the day.

He was under no illusions as to her reasons. Their tentative friendship, though he had difficulty even thinking that word, was a fragile thing, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to judge her. His thoughts had been growing disjointed, he knew, and it was showing in his erratic behaviour. Restraining that, even for a time, was never as easy as it looked.

Making sense of who she was difficult enough, let alone how she thought, but a distraction was something he'd never needed more. When Regina found him sprawled against the iron wall of the generator hall, eyes staring blanking at his creation, she understood instantly without a single word. _Something is wrong. No, I don't want to talk about it. Yes, even if I'll never say it, even if I'll laugh at you and insult you if you ask, I don't want you to leave either. _And so she closed the door and sat against the same iron wall until the ridiculousness of the situation, both of them sitting against a hard wall watching a piece of sheet metal, was enough to break his spell of rumination.

Just as he understood their rapport would be crushed if she pushed him too far, he also understood someone was offering him an opportunity to share something for the first time in far too many years. They needed each other, and if that was shameful he no longer had the strength to care.

And so they'd left the safety of the underground compound, tasking Mirzin with waiting for Harper's return without another thought for the specifics. It'd been four days and he was still out of contact. Close, too close, but not quite out of the time frame he'd given them. Still, by any measure he was taking too long. They left and he followed her through the coastal districts for some hours only to arrive on the slope of the north-western mountains. To his surprise there were few patrols left in the western sector, though a wry comment from Regina put an end to his speculation. They'd pulled out for their own safety after widespread backlash by the residents of the area.

It seemed the situation was coming to a critical point, one way or another. The streets were lined with posters advertising a public address by General Hereson and several government ministers in the days ahead. Security would be unprecedented, no doubt, but they were at least willing to try the diplomatic option before unleashing the army.

"You're falling behind again," Regina said as he struggled up a particularly steep slope, watching from above with obvious amusement. "Don't worry, I'll let you take a break." He fell to his knees again, breathing more heavily than he had in years. Hiking was more difficult than it looked, and it certainly didn't look easy. He watched Regina looking out at the city below, her windswept hair partially obscuring a look of surprise.

He looked up and realised they'd reached a grassy plain high on the slopes of the mountain. The sound of running water brought a narrow stream to his attention; it was an entirely unfamiliar sight. The first blades of green grass returning after the summer heat, small birds perched on a boulder watching their every move, the vivid blue of the afternoon sky tainted by thick clouds of black smoke in the west.

With some effort he rose from the ground and stood next to her, taking in the city from above. The western command centre rose far above the rows of buildings below, an unforgettable reminder of the state military's power and influence. Even ignoring the ongoing fire at the fuel depot there were four columns of smoke marking the sites of even more conflict, two in the west and two in the south. An armed convey was leaving the deployment gate of the command centre, and from their height he could see countless more signs that the military was preparing for a siege. Taking such a fortress would be a challenge regardless of how many men you had with you.

"So he's really going to do it, isn't he?" he murmured, trying to take in and understand every detail at once. "I never believed it. What difference does he expect to make?"

Regina was watching him, he knew. Observing the way she always did. "It's hard to believe. We were right in the middle of it. Royce would've had us both with him on the island and that would've been that." She adjusted her jacket, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

"Is that what you wanted?"

She shook her head and sighed. "Not really, no. I… I'm sick of being ordered around, to tell you the truth. When was the last time I did anything for myself, or even had a friend who hadn't seen me kill someone? So I've decided I'm done obeying commands. Treat me like an equal or do it yourself, how's that for a life philosophy?

It was everything he'd wanted to hear. To watch someone come to terms with their station in life only to reject it? That was satisfaction. That was what he'd been unable to do for so long.

"You're valued as a weapon. I'm valued because I create weapons. If we refuse to perform those functions we'll be rendered worthless." It was a truth he'd come to accept many years before they met.

"Worthless? And who's making that judgement?"

He shrugged. Wasn't it obvious? "People with power, of course. And if there's one thing I've learned it's that I'm not one of them."

"So you're saying I should beat myself up because people like Royce and Hereson might think we're worthless?"

An argumentative day. Lovely. "You've misinterpreted me. We're no less dangerous, only now we're alone and unpredictable. If you still think they'll allow that to continue then I'm afraid this isn't going to have a pleasant end." He was growing fond of her company, even to admire certain aspects of her personality and her view on the world. It made no difference if she refused to accept the reality of their situation.

A sharp laugh broke through his inner monologue and he saw her grinning at him from the side as if he was the stupid one. "So you actually think I brought you halfway up a mountain just for fresh air?"

He stumbled over his words for a moment, trying to salvage the situation and hide the fact that he'd been so glad for an excuse to stop thinking that he hadn't considered an ulterior motive. Well, nobody else was present, they were on the scenic slopes of a mountain looking out at the overwhelmed city below, and she'd left Mirzin behind deliberately. But no, _that_ couldn't be it. He turned his head sharply and saw she was barely restraining laughter at his expense.

"I really thought you'd have figured this out. Don't worry, everyone has their bad days."

Oh, she was certainly enjoying herself. "Just spit it out, would you?"

"Well, you said it yourself. When Harper said he'd get your Stabilizer did you stop to consider what that meant or just nod blankly and wave him out the door?" He remained silent. "I thought so. But I watched them prepare. Kesler's explosives, submachine guns, facemasks: if he fails, and even if he doesn't, they're going to come after us. Breaking into that place was hell even with all the guards dead and he's still going to try it."

"I see. Not so naïve after all, are you?"

Regina pulled a backpack off her shoulders and sat in the grass. "Just what do you think he's after anyway? I can't figure it out. He hates the government and he hates Royce's people. Sometimes I think if I say the wrong thing he's just going to kill me without a second thought, but so far he's done the exact opposite." He recalled her description of the man smiling at John Pretsin's wife a moment before slashing her throat and was sure she was thinking of the exact same moment.

"Some people prefer the chaos to the end result, I know," Kirk said, enjoying the chance to speculate. Distractions, puzzles, questions, and space: she was learning. "Still, that doesn't explain why he and his merry band of followers have gone to all this trouble. A personal grudge could be it, but maybe not. I'm afraid you've got two choices: ask him yourself or wait until he tells us what we ought to do with the Stabilizer he's so generously gone to get." He sat down next to her, the muscles in his legs rejoicing at the opportunity to rest. "What's your guess? You're the only one he speaks to, you know."

"I don't know, and that's why we're all the way out here. I'm not going back until I know what's happened, and I suggest you do the same. Shouldn't be too much longer. And you're wrong, anyway. I've seen him with those friends he keeps away from us and he seems to value them."

Regina pulled two bottles of water from her bag and threw one at him. It was only prudent, of course, but he hadn't considered the situation quite as carefully as she had. His mind had been otherwise occupied for weeks.

The day was only growing warmer, though the high mountain winds were cool enough to keep it comfortable. Edward's eyes were fixed on the western coast and the things he knew were concealed beneath it until his companion turned and pulled off her coat, revealing a sleeveless black shirt and holstered pistol underneath.

Her skin was quite pale, as could be expected of someone with Regina's lifestyle, but he could see the lean muscle under the skin even when she was relaxed. It would be easy to become self-conscious about his own deplorable physique, but there was no shame in focusing on your strengths and that was what they'd both done in their own way. His poor habits—barely eating or sleeping for years, particularly—had resulted in a near skeletal frame, something he took care to conceal.

"Not very subtle, are you?" she asked, throwing the coat carelessly to the side.

With far too much difficulty he looked up and re-established eye contact. "You're not usually seen outside of uniforms and clothes that might as well be uniforms, and it's still difficult for me to actually believe that people don't just remain the same person their entire lives. Who'd have guessed you were just another woman under that mask? But that was your idea, wasn't it?"

There was something decidedly fascinating about superiority in all its forms, he'd always thought, no doubt in large part due to his own mind and emotions being so separate from the rest of the world. His sense of self had been built on his intellectual superiority for so long that it was only natural. Still, faced with what she'd accomplished; her level of physical ability and fitness, unprecedented in his experience, but more than that: that she was willing to throw her entire life away for…

"You're my test run for this idea, you know that right?" she said, taking a long overdue drink and interrupting yet another internal monologue.

"And since we couldn't possibly trust the results from only one trial I suppose I'm obliged to monitor your progress too. If I hear another 'sir' then I'll have to assume you've failed," Edward pointed out, deliberately making it sound as if even that was a concession.

"Is that your scientific opinion?"

"After a decade in university I expect you can rely on my scientific opinions. I wouldn't tell you how to bomb a fuel depot, would I?"

Regina scowled at that, but fortunately didn't bother commenting. Too soon, he wondered? "It's hard to imagine you at a university. Weird, huh? Was it here?" she asked, waving at the city below them.

He snorted in derision at the suggestion. "Merestan's a military city. Good for soldiers, not so nice for intellectuals. I started in the capital. Could even see the central command centre in all its monstrous glory from my window. Did you know western command is only the second largest fortress in the country? You do now."

"Really? How could I have possibly known that? It's not like I was based out of central for an entire year," she replied, adopting a mocking tone he knew he'd earned. Her amusement softened, however, as she looked down at the aforementioned command centre. From their position he could see an artillery battery facing the sea.

"I studied in Borginia too, you know. Two years after they first let me call myself Doctor. Borginian technology is a few years ahead of ours in just about every respect, so there was little reason to stay here." He didn't know why he was telling her any of this. He'd never known anyone well enough to tell even that much.

"But you came back. Why?"

He grimaced at the memory. "Because an ambitious lieutenant colonel was so fascinated by my work that he offered me endless military funding to develop it into a prototype. Not a lot of scientists who go to Borginia ever want to come back, you have to understand. Still, it seems he's found a way to make this work without me. Or perhaps that's only what he wants me to think. Sometimes I wonder whether Harper knows it too and that's why he's doing this."

"You're speaking in riddles again, Kirk. Knows what? How much you like being vague?"

"Our government is vile and corrupt, yes? Nobody seems inclined to disagree on that point. Anton Royce comes along promising revolution and reform, climbing through the ranks in half the time it usually takes. He's calm and charismatic and understands people and refuses to torture and murder his enemies. Publicly he likes to argue with his superiors and fight for internal reform and the public finally have someone in the military who fights for them."

"And you don't approve of that?" Her tone indicated interest without judgement; this was good, the only way he could continue without anger.

"There are things I saw in Borginia. Things you can't learn here that they showed me before I left to come back here. Think of it as a warning, my colleagues said. After enough images of executions and torture and mass graves in the snow I forced them to make their point, and they did." He exhaled, rubbing his tired eyes. "They were scenes from the subjugation of the Alvernian northern border."

"But that's exactly what he says he's fighting for. A world where that doesn't have to happen." Her lack of surprise was telling.

He continued in a dry monotone, regretting opening his mouth to begin with but recognising that it had to be said. "All I'm saying is, for people like you and Royce this is an ideological question. But I remember what they showed me, and there was no ideology there. The atrocities repeated themselves over and over," he said, unable to stop until he understood, "and they just kept going until there was nothing left. It was almost…"

Regina put her hand on his shoulder. So she did understand. "Systematic?" she asked quietly. "Is that how you'd describe it?"

"It's exactly how I'd describe it. But how did you…?"

"Harper said he was there. That they experimented on the population while suppressing them. He said it as if it meant something to him. Sometimes I think he's got half the answers and just won't tell us, but I don't know what to do about it."

Of course. A solution was beginning to take form at last. "Then if I had to guess I'd say he's not quite the sociopath he appears, wouldn't you agree?" It was a rhetorical question. "And if that's the case then we must assume someone in Royce's faction is to blame for an offense heinous enough for him and his followers to have risked themselves to save us. That suits me perfectly: if he wants Royce dead I won't be standing in his way."

"Are you really still holding a grudge because he stopped funding your project? You know he refused to torture you even though Anders told him to?"

"I'm holding a grudge because he's a hypocrite. Can't do his own dirty work so he convinces everyone else to do it for him and tells himself he's so much better than the rest of us. If he didn't think you could've persuaded me he'd have turned me over to her before long and still found a way to absolve himself of any blame." It was difficult to find the right words to express his distaste for the man.

Regina remained silent, a troubled air exposing her controlled expression for the lie it was. Neither of them spoke again for the better part of an hour, too busy with their own thoughts.

"I don't know what to tell you. I don't even know what to tell myself," she eventually said, poking languidly at the ground with a stick.

"You don't need to tell me anything." He hesitated, again unsure of her intentions. "But I need to tell you something."

Well, it was too late to pretend he hadn't said it. She'd turned around fully with a very expectant look on her face.

"I'll just come out and say it, shall I? I won't be able to modify the Stabilizer here. I'm not convinced it can be done without producing a new model, and that can't be done outside Borginia. The generator we have is just an older version of the one on the island, so that's not really a problem."

The confusion in her eyes was almost endearing. "So why didn't you ever say it? If Harper's not dead I don't know what he'll do if you tell him that."

"You're missing the point. If the Stabilizer doesn't work the generator still produces energy, just at an ever increasing rate the hardware can't tolerate; this results in a violent overload. It works… just not for long. I didn't want anyone to know just how miserable a failure I turned out to be."

He knew she'd understand. She wasn't stupid. And so she did. "You're saying we can still use it as a weapon, but not an energy generator?"

And Kirk laughed, having been faced with that exact problem for far too long. "It's hilarious, isn't it? I set out to create a solution to our ever increasing need for energy and all I've created is another weapon. I accidentally created the thing they want most. But that's enough for them, I suspect, so they really don't need me at all. All that time in the cells and it was already working well enough to do what they wanted. It kept me going, you know, knowing I'd beaten them like that."

"But that doesn't make any sense. You didn't tell Borginia their weapon was ready?"

"Obviously not. I wanted it to work properly or not at all. And I'm not saying it'll work perfectly, but if you want something to explode... Still, if I had to make a prediction I'd say I don't have that luxury now. So there's a decision to make, clearly, and I'm not really sure what to do about it."

It was an interesting look, the one she was giving him. Exasperation mixed with frustration and the slightest hint of panic. Perhaps something else, too. It had to be progress of a sort, recognising such a mix of emotions which were quickly replaced by even more emotions right before his eyes.

"You idiot. You complete idiot, do you know what you've done?" Regina said, losing her composure for the first time. "If they know, or even if they _don't_ know…"

He stood up, realising something else. "You left Mirzin alone?"

She nodded, eyes wide with… well, something.

"That's not good. Harper never left him alone for good reason. If he goes up to the surface and contacts Royce and tells him… you get the point."

'Alright, I admit it. We've both fucked this up," Regina said, clearly struggling to remain still. She reached into the backpack and pulled out a cheap phone, something Kosirim left them before leaving with a promise to contact them before their return. A promise he potentially hadn't kept.

"Isn't that a risk for them," Edward pointed out, imagining any number of scenarios in which grey-clad operatives were captured after an unfortunately timed call. Was that how it worked? He certainly wasn't going to ask.

"They were supposed to be back yesterday. If he's dead we're trashing your generator, Kirk," she said with tapping at the screen. Long, quite delicate fingers, he noted, again feeling out of his depth. It was hot enough that he was perspiring simply from exposure to the sun and looked to be getting no cooler as the day progressed.

She threw the phone down with a look of disgust. "Kosirim's not answering, and that guy doesn't strike me as the type to ignore his obligations. So now what?"

"We go back."

He could think of a great many reasons to protest that answer, and yet she simply nodded and stood up. Nothing more was said until they approached the base of the mountain. Hiking was an easier task on the way down, fortunately, aside from that one incident in which he nearly fell down a particularly steep slope. The ease with which she pulled him back up was genuinely impressive, but he was far too embarrassed by his own shoddy climbing skills to mention that.

She tried calling again while walking, he noticed, receiving the same answer. Before long they were on the outskirts of the city itself, where the buildings gave way to the mountainous terrain in the north. It would be an hour of walking at least before they reached the base, he knew.

It felt strange to have spent so many hours in the sun. He couldn't think of a way to communicate this without sounding pathetic, so he didn't, but it was a rare luxury for someone who lived and worked underground. It seemed as if only a few others were enjoying the opportunity; the streets were mostly empty and several of the people they'd passed were armed.

"Alley on the left, make it look casual," Regina murmured, ruining yet another thought session. Focusing back on reality he saw why: three uniformed soldiers were patrolling a major intersection ahead of them. The alley could, of course, be a dead end, but she'd accounted for that.

"Something's changed. Stay behind me until we're back, I'll make sure it's—"Regina began issuing orders which he saw no reason not to follow, but was interrupted by the buzzing vibrations of the phone she'd been carrying in her side pocket.

She stared at it for a moment, puzzled, before hesitantly answering. Most of the conversation was one-sided, leaving little for his mind to play with, but she did write something on a slip of paper before ending the call.

"Well, what happened?"

She shook her head. "Bad news. They had to fight their way out of there. Half of them are dead; I spoke to that woman he took with him, the one with the half-foreign accent. They're trapped between two warehouses in the north-western port," she said, holding up the piece of paper.

Caution, concern, none of it mattered. "But did they succeed despite that?"

"She said they got both devices but Kesler's men have been told to search the coast for them. Looks like I'm going to have to save him this time, and our little alliance with her is probably over."

He glanced back at the entrance to the alley, but the streets remained as quiet as ever. "Think before you act this time. If it's a lie you're probably going to be killed."

"What choice do we have? If it's true I'll get them out of there, or at least get the devices. If they go down how long do you think we've got?"

"And if it's a lie?"

"Then I'll fight my way out, or maybe I'll get a bullet to the back of the head." She pressed the phone into his hand. "Could you disable the generator without anyone knowing?"

He couldn't help but admire her audacity, foolish as it likely was. "I could remove a key component without much difficulty."

"Do that. Take it with you and find somewhere to hide out. If I don't call that phone in the next two days you're on your own. And if it helps, you're much less of an ass once you're away from your work. Just thought you ought to know that."

She pulled her coat back on and turned to leave with little more than a short nod in farewell. But that couldn't be it. Nobody had ever treated him in this manner in his entire life. Not domineering, not subservient. She genuinely expected he would do what he said he would in return for her own willingness to do the same. When was the last time anyone had approached him for anything other than their own gain?

Finally decided, Kirk looked up with the right response in mind. She was gone, of course.

The solitary walk through the streets was unnerving in more ways than one. Reinforcements from western command were gradually appearing; once he heard three or four people trading shots in a street far too close to his. As he went deeper into the western sector the quality of the housing dropped drastically. It was only when the air began to taste faintly of salt and the streets grew entirely deserted that he knew he was near the alley concealing the entrance to the underground facility.

Still, he wasn't Regina and he wasn't going to pretend he had those skills. Neither was he reckless or foolhardy. Whatever had happened on Ibis Island, he was sure they'd only heard a small piece of the truth, if that. Harper was a habitual liar and the people he was fighting were even worse.

And so instead of turning down the alley he approached an abandoned apartment complex closer to the beach. The dusty halls provided a convenient place to watch and wait unseen, a comforting notion considering the deep sense of dread that filled him at the idea of returning to the complex alone. Once he descended the ladder there would be only one way out and he had a deep suspicion it would lead to a cell. From there he could observe. At a distance, yes, but still barely within sight of the entrance.

Peering out from behind a moth-eaten curtain he could see the entrance to the alley. A lone man stood in the alley. Mirzin. That was either a very good or a very bad sign, and Edward Kirk was not a man to gamble his life on such chances. On the other hand, his choices were rather grim: approach or wait. How were you supposed to judge a situation like this?

If he approached and Mirzin knew he'd be trapped; even if he only could use one arm that would be enough to hold a pistol. If he didn't know it would be impossible to explain their absence without an elaborate lie, but how could he confirm which pieces of information the man knew when he didn't know if he'd been any further than—he deliberately cut that line of thought short and watched for some time in complete silence.

Exhaustion was setting in. Several hours of walking and hiking combined with a high level of stress and thought, not to mention his fit of misery in the morning, were bad signs. He turned around and collapsed against the peeling wallpaper, running his hands through his hair out of sheer frustration. And when he looked up he knew the decision had been taken from him once more.

Through the gloom he saw a figure at the doorway. And yet it wasn't the short, lean man he'd seen outside but a tall woman in filthy, near ruined clothes. She lacked Regina's muscle tone and her left arm was wrapped in heavily stained cloth cut from her right sleeve. Her brown eyes widened at the sight of him, and yet she'd clearly followed him in. His own response was quite similar, though he resisted the urge to run away for long enough to take a closer look.

"He said you would come back and you did," she whispered, likely to herself, and then he saw the grey past the filth coating her jacket. Her thick brown hair was unusually long for a soldier, though it seemed caked in blood toward the top of her skull.

"You're one of Harper's people," Kirk exclaimed, realising with some alarm that she looked as if she'd been savagely beaten.

She nodded, a faint smile appearing on her face for less than a second, and approached him cautiously. "We made it back, and we brought you those parts." She looked at the window and bit her lip. "But he said we can't go back yet. What's happened?"

Kirk realised his hands were shaking. This couldn't be happening. How could it be happening? If she was here, if she was talking to him, if she'd just said what she said, asked him…

He seized the collar of her jacket and pulled her toward him, eliciting a hiss of pain when he brushed her left arm. "You can't be here," he whispered. "You told us to come and rescue you at a warehouse, so how can you be here?" She attempted to pull away but he didn't care and tightened his grip. Had she betrayed them? Was she only keeping him occupied while the troops positioned themselves? If she had he'd snap her neck before she had the chance, one final act of rebellion. "_Well, didn't you_? _Tell me what you've done_," he said, struggling not to shout, until someone from behind kicked him in the back of the knee and he fell to the floor bringing her with him. He scrambled for leverage but his attacker slammed a boot into his ribs with a crack and dragged him to the side of the room.

"So this is how you repay us? If you ever touch her again it'll be the last thing you do, Kirk." The man's words were filled with spite.

He rolled onto his back, wheezing heavily, and saw yet another sight he couldn't begin to evaluate. No Alvernian soldiers, but Harper was watching him from above. The man's usual smile, fake though it was, had vanished, replaced by a blank stare. His eyes gleamed with a feverish energy.

Kirk pulled himself up against the wall, but the woman he'd assaulted was standing behind Harper, one hand clenching the back of his shirt. He looked at his own hands, and then at them, and it was impossible to ignore. He was the villain in this scene and they all knew it. He pulled himself to his feet with a scowl of disgust. For himself, for them, for the entire world.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and slammed it on a flimsy wooden table by the window.

"She'll be dead by now."

"Dead? Regina? Was she captured?" Harper asked, switching from indignation to inquisitiveness within a second.

"By someone posing as _her_," Kirk said, gesturing wildly at the silhouette hiding behind Harper. It was strange, he couldn't help but realise. Harper's group had all seemed experienced soldiers and she was hiding from him like a frightened child?

And for the second time he was surprised. Instead of triumph, or pleasure, or entertainment, or even confusion, their faces were consumed by a look of dread. The injured woman looked to be trying not to shake and Harper's closed fist was twitching.

"And you actually care?" he asked, on edge as if he expected it were an elaborate joke.

"Are you too stupid to understand this? She knows _everything_. Aren't you the one who so bluntly told her she'd be beaten or raped or whatever you military scum do to imprisoned women?" If it was difficult to tolerate his feigned ignorance when they'd met it was all but impossible now.

The injured woman spun around and hurriedly left the room. Harper watched her leave with a regretful stare before looking back. "I'm beginning to regret this." He sank down against the wall and ran a hand through his filthy hair. "Just explain it, alright? It's been a rough week."

So he did. Every step they'd taken and every mistake they'd made, right down to her stubbornly insisting on going alone. It felt like progress of a sort and that was what he needed to feel. Anything other than useless.

When he was finished he looked down at the man, expecting the usual bold strategies and risk-filled plans these people employed. Instead he saw a weary man resting his head against a rotting wall, his grey eyes staring back almost as if admitting defeat.

"I don't know what to tell you, Kirk," he finally said. "But Kosirim's dead. Executed when we were captured, lucky bastard. They must have picked up his phone then."

"So it is a trap, clearly. She's the bait? But for who?" Kirk said, trying to picture who would've come up with such a plan.

"They probably wanted to capture you, not her." Harper stood up with a groan, looked out the door into the hall and nodded. "Now's fine, Jane," he called out in a stifled half-shout. The need to be quiet was clear to all of them, at least.

"I'm going to be honest. We waited here for either of you to show up after we saw Royce's man waiting outside that manhole. Might've been better to kill him, but it's too late for that. Barely made it off that fucking island to begin with."

The brown-haired woman, Jane, returned with a thick black case held in her right hand and delicately set it on the table next to Kosirim's phone. Edward stared blankly from the moment she reappeared. After all this time he'd never actually expected to see his most proud achievement again. Even unfinished the Stabilizer was a veritable masterpiece of engineering, combining the absolute peak in Alvernian and Borginian technology to produce a miraculous device no larger than his forearm. The methods used in its construction were one of a kind, developed especially for the project over many painstakingly long years of research.

His hands brushed over the tarnished leather and the metal clasp, all other thoughts rendered utterly irrelevant in light of what had finally been brought back to him. "I cannot express my gratitude enough for this," he murmured, reaching for the clasp with a trembling hand.

But his moment of triumph was ruined by the sound of vibrating plastic and he realised with a sinking feeling in his chest that any triumph he'd felt was wholly imaginary.

Could it be her? Had she escaped? Or was it someone else entirely? For a brief moment he considered running. Taking the devices, asking Harper to join him, and leaving to start over. To think such a thing a mere two hundred metres from his own generator because a crippled man stood in his path and he wanted to abandon someone who'd done far more to save his own life was pathetic, he knew without even having to ask.

Reluctantly he moved his hand from the case and picked up the phone, answering without a word.

"Kirk, are you there?" So Regina was still alive, at least.

"Yes."

"I need to tell you something." She paused for far too long. "Get out of the city while you—"The call was disconnected. Not quite what he'd hoped for when she answered.

"They got her, didn't they?" Harper asked from the floor. Jane was sitting next to him, her eyes fixed on the phone, one hand on her injured arm. There was something they weren't telling him, no doubt. He told them anyway. It wasn't as if he had any other allies.

The phone rang again and he didn't hesitate to answer. This time someone else was on the other end.

"Hello, Edward," a female voice said, much calmer than Regina had been. "It'll be interesting to deal with someone like you. Do try not to be boring, would you? I have something of yours and you have something of mine. How would a rational man deal with this problem?"

His heart nearly froze in his chest. Something of hers? His work was not the property of this mindless scum, whoever she thought she was. And what possible reason did she have to think he'd care even if she executed Regina on the spot?

"You're mistaken. You have nothing of mine and I have nothing of yours." If he revealed he had the devices or that he wasn't alone he'd have revealed two important pieces of information far too early. He was no stranger to strategy, and even that was worth hiding as long as he could.

"If you lie to me again I'll cut off one of her fingers. The right index finger would be appropriate, given her line of work. The next lie after that and she loses a hand. Tell me again: are you sure you have nothing I might want?" He hadn't for even a moment expected her to test his claim so violently.

He looked down at Harper. His face was twisted into an uncharacteristic grimace and Kirk realised it was in response to his own disturbed expression. If he lied she would do it, no doubt. And then what would he have gained? Nothing.

"The Stabilizer is mine. You can't use it anyway, not until my work is finished."

"Do you think I care about your toys? We've got another set, and they're useless anyway. No. The man who delivered it to you: I want you to give him to me in return for your precious woman, who a good friend assures me you've come to value. Not just him, but a woman who should be with him. The rest of his group, there may be two or three more, would be appreciated, but they're less important. Do this and I'll let you continue your research and return the prisoner without any missing parts. Unless he's mistaken, in which case I'll just kill her now and you're free to go. Is that how we'll do it?"

Good friend? Who could she possibly—no he knew: Mirzin had used the first opportunity to betray them, and that meant he'd been just as aware of their independence as Kirk himself had been. Had he simply been playing the fool? His thoughts were beginning to race.

"And if I don't?"

"You see? You do care. I'll start by destroying your experimental generators. Yes, both of them. As for this woman, I'll take away every last thing you ever admired or found attractive about her and send you the leftovers. Interpret that however you like. You're the rational one, they tell me, so the question is: are you willing to pay that price just for Harper and his slut? They've been dead for years, I assure you. You can even think of it as merciful."

How was he supposed to respond to that? Nobody in his life had ever expressed so much vitriol in such a calm tone, almost as if she were asking him whether he'd be willing to come to lunch, not whether he'd mind if she… if she what?

"No answer? Do you need more time? I understand. I'll send you some visual motivation as soon as I can. If you'd like to come find us we're at the same warehouse. We'll only be there for a few more days, but I'm sure you'd like to conclude our transaction before then." She disconnected the call without even waiting for a response and he resisted the urge to snap the thing in half.

"Well, who is it and what do they want? Your devices don't even work properly, so what's the big issue?" Harper asked.

"It was… I'm not sure. A woman. She indicated Mirzin betrayed us, so I'm inclined to think Royce's faction." He paused, slightly shaken. "I've rarely encountered someone so sure of themselves, let alone so aggressive."

Harper stood up. "What did she want?" His voice was different. The usual sardonic quips had disappeared entirely.

He had to consider that carefully. If he lied he could hand them over. Hand them over and then what? They'd never just let the two of them leave. He'd end up in the cell next to Regina's, and he'd prefer a quick death to more imprisonment.

"A trade. Regina for the two of you." he finally said. The two men watched each other carefully, as if both expected the other to make a sudden move.

"We need to run. All it takes is one mistake and we're well past that. Our only chance and we blew it by not cutting that bastard's throat." Was that a hint of panic? From _him_?

"How pathetic. You just broke into a fortress with an entire army right above you and now a few mercenaries in a warehouse is too much? How hard can it be? What's your real excuse this time, Harper?"

Harper's fist hit him in the side of the face and he flew back, the table's sharp corner cutting into his ribs.

"You're not half as rational as you like to think you are. Every last thing I've seen you do is emotional." To Kirk's surprise he held his hand out and pulled the younger man onto his feet. "I'm not saying I don't want to help: I'm saying I _can't_."

He spat out a mouthful of blood and wiped his face. "Tell me why not."

"Because she's already accounted for every decision that you'd make in this situation. Because we had a plan and allies, and now it's all ruined," a quiet voice said from the wall. They both looked in surprise, and Kirk treated it as confirmation that they really were hiding information. Jane, did he say her name was? The man had taken great care to keep his team away from the three of them living underground.

Harper sighed. "I didn't want to think it but she's right. If you make the trade she'll capture you too. If you don't she's not going to kill Regina, but she'll make her wish she was dead. She also wants you to try and retake the generator and threaten her. If you run you'll probably be dead within a week anyway. No matter how you approach this she wins and you lose."

"Who exactly is this strategist?"

"You haven't guessed? You're dealing with Royce's second in command. That's her official position, but she's planned his strategies for this entire campaign. Royce is the politician, you realise, and he doesn't have the stomach for what she likes to do alone. Don't ask, don't tell—that's their policy. Trust me just this once: this is how she operates."

He remembered a woman who followed the Colonel relentlessly. Cold features and colder eyes, long blonde hair and a reputation for efficiency through unconventional methods. Those were the euphemisms used to hide her brutality, they all knew, but they'd rarely spoken. "Anders was the name? Eliza Anders? A lieutenant colonel?'

They both nodded. "I tried to kill her on Ibis Island. I… something stopped me before I could, and now she knows all three of us have deserted. If she didn't know before, which I wouldn't put past her."

"But why does she care? That's a trivial concern for the second in command of his whole miserable rebellion to handle personally."

"I've been through this before. She's here for something else, probably to clear the way for Royce to come in and 'restore order'. This is just a game to her, and she doesn't play games unless she knows she'll win."

"You're saying I've lost without making a single move?" Even the idea of such a humiliating defeat was too much.

"If you want to put it bluntly, yes."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not losing to them again. Twice was humiliating enough, but three times? Both of you," Kirk said, feeling a burst of eagerness for the first time in months. "She has us on the defensive, but that's little more than an illusion. This city is officially under the jurisdiction of Major General Hereson, and in the military's eyes Anders is little more than an especially dangerous extremist. She's just as isolated as we are until they invade."

This was how it should happen. A stream of thoughts, one conclusion leading to the next, nothing but certainty and accuracy. So they'd taken the refuge of his work from him the very moment he had the tools to continue, even taken the person he'd grown to rely on for direction. That only gave him more reason to despise them all.

"If you join me we can beat them. How long has it been since any of them saw their plans torn down and ruined the way we have? Our lives have been defined by their decisions, reward and punishment passed out as if they had any right to judge us. This is the last chance we'll have: we can move while they're weak and destroy them all." He had to convince them. Both of them. He'd done it before and he could do it again, and what was left to any of them except revenge?

Harper put a hand on his friend's shoulder and looked into her eyes. In hindsight it was obvious, perhaps, but it was only then that Edward realised that the near-sociopathic man and the distant, professional woman who'd left for Ibis Island had both been broken. What else could he call it? Something had changed and they weren't telling him. When had he ever acted this way with anyone?

"We don't have to do this," Harper said, but she shook her head.

"If we don't do this what do we do? Run forever? She'd find us, you know she would," Jane said, almost whispering. "But I want you to promise me something." And for this she looked at Kirk too. "If I'm captured just kill me. I won't go back there again. Until then, maybe we can try and stop them."

And Harper grimaced, but he also nodded his agreement. "I will, and I need you to do the same for me if the time comes." They both turned back to face him. That they felt the need to make that promise didn't say much for Regina's chances.

"If you can come up with a feasible plan we'll do what we can. But I realise how much you need us right now. Once this is done you're going to help us crush their rebellion and the military too. Does that sound a fair price to you, Edward?"

Hearing him say that how could he help smile? "I think I can accommodate that desire. I may even share it. First we'll have to force Anders into the open and take back the generator, and that's certainly not an impossible task. She won't kill her only hostage so easily."

"Then we'll do it your way this time. What's our next move?" Harper said, smiling faintly.

Standing there in that grim, dusty apartment it was difficult to be optimistic. How could he hope to outmanoeuvre someone so experienced and dangerous with so few resources? The slightest mistake and she would die, no doubt; why did the prospect of that outcome seem so intolerable?

It was an opportunity, at the very least. For the first time one of his enemies had abandoned the protection of their armies and even dared to challenge him directly. He was such a prodigy, they'd always said, able to learn and adapt and anticipate well beyond the limits of others. What better opportunity to put those skills to the test than facing off against someone directly responsible for so much misery?


	16. Chapter 16

_Note: Warning for explicit content._

Gail always told them before every last assignment: this could be the one where you don't come back, and you need to make peace with that. Regina had accepted that without difficulty, or so she'd thought. What difference did it make, really, if one day she was too slow or too stupid and died because of it? She'd be beyond knowing and the military could easily replace her without difficulty. She had no real friends, no family to mourn her. That was how they liked their soldiers.

This was entirely different. She'd suspected a trap. Wondered if Harper was going to dispose of her so he could manipulate Kirk as he liked. The reality was far different. The ruined, filthy warehouse only had been empty and silent; it was only after entering that a man in a bloodstained grey jacket revealed his presence. It was nothing more than a diversion to buy them a brief few seconds and it worked. Four soldiers ambushed her, one from each side. Their Alvernian uniforms were enough to fool her at first. It wasn't even necessary, just a hint of theatrical flair to add a small touch of confusion to her reaction.

Still, Hereson's men wouldn't have had access to Kosirim's phone, and they wouldn't have thrown her in a disused meat freezer. There was nothing official about them beyond their tactics and uniforms. One of them had returned briefly and allowed her to speak to Edward Kirk through the same phone for ten brief seconds. No demands, no questions, just imprisonment and one brief call. If he had any sense he'd have fled the moment that call was finished.

Her surroundings were grim, to put it mildly. The inside of the freezer was covered in a thick layer of rust and smelled of mildew and rotting flesh, but they'd left only a small lamp in the corner to illuminate the entire chamber. The warehouse was ancient and likely hadn't been used for some years, or so she thought. Even the district outside was mostly derelict, yet another casualty of the city's economic collapse a decade before.

They'd left her alone for some hours. Or so it seemed, though it could easily have been far longer. By the time the door finally opened with a slow grind she guessed it'd been the better part of eight hours, and the dull moonlight shining through the grimy warehouse windows supported that theory.

The man who'd previously been wearing a grey jacket lightly stepped inside, leaving the door unclosed and himself exposed. There was a pistol holstered on his hip; otherwise he was unarmed. Thick muscles strained against his shirt and his height would've put even the tallest men she'd known to shame. There was something disturbingly familiar about his face, even the way it crinkled in disgust at the foul smell.

"Funny how life works out, isn't it?" he said, his tone relaxed and polite.

"I'm inclined to think the opposite," she replied in a similar manner, pushing herself back again the iron wall. This didn't look promising.

"So am I, truth be told. I suppose you can be forgiven for forgetting me, but I didn't forget you."

Now he was smiling ever so slightly and she knew whatever he intended wasn't going to be pleasant. If this was just some personal revenge fantasy than how did he get the men and resources to pull off that kind of ambush?

He sighed, gesturing with one arm for her to speed up. "We met after a night of drinks, remember? Me and my buddy got kicked out of a pub and thought we'd teach you officers not to walk around like you owned the place, only you weren't the quiet little office worker you pretended you were."

Oh. Well, these things had to be expected when you killed people for a living. The filthy surroundings and the way the harsh light illuminated his smirking face weren't helping, and she could feel her heart rate rising. Theoretical acceptance or not, the reality of death was far different when it was smirking at you in a meat freezer.

"How did you get out of prison? Usually they execute militia members without trial." Keep him talking as long as possible, she thought. Even delaying the inevitable was better than accepting it.

He almost seemed willing to play along. "You haven't guessed?"

Regina shook her head. She knew how helpless she looked and hated it. How could she overpower someone like that? Even if she did, there were at least three more. But she couldn't just submit to them, and there were no obvious ways to kill herself either if that's what was necessary.

He laughed and took a slow step forward. "I'm not going to tell you. Might ruin things, you see?" Another step. Only a few more steps and he'd be above her.

What point was there in delaying it? She refused to die without dignity, regardless of what he was planning. "Cut the small talk, I'm not interested anyway. Just do what you're here to do."

His smirk shifted into a full grin. "Impressive. No begging at all? She said you wouldn't. Good thing we didn't bet on it, but there's still time to change that." She didn't ask. He wanted her to ask, so she wouldn't. Fuck him and fuck her, whoever she was.

Another step closer. She risked standing up, testing her muscles while doing so. Everything seemed to be in working order. Her entire body had tensed up, anticipating an assault at any moment.

Her captor stopped half a metre before her, and she was forced to look up to see his face. He smelled faintly of sweat and cheap cologne. Why would he get so close knowing what she could do unless it was just another trap? Only one way to find out.

He grabbed Regina's arm in one hand and pulled her toward him, but she used her free hand to seize the pistol at his hip and bury it in his heavily muscled chest. "Should've just killed me, idiot," she whispered in his ear. "Now we're going to leave, and if you do this properly I won't have to shoot you."

"Oh, this is embarrassing isn't it? It's our night on the town all over again, huh?" he whispered, dropping her arm without argument. He was still grinning.

They slipped out the door of the freezer. The warehouse was all but empty, only occupied by the odd cargo container. "See, I had you all to myself and look what you've done. I'm telling you: you shouldn't think so poorly of me." It was extraordinarily difficult not to shoot him in the abdomen and leave him to bleed out on the spot. Worse, a deep sense of foreboding had only grown stronger since taking him captive.

She turned him around on the spot and stood with the pistol aimed at his head. "Tell me what you're doing. You're an awful actor, you know that? So just drop it and _tell me_," she said, barely containing a shout. Foreboding turned into genuine fear.

He raised his hands overhead and shrugged, still grinning. The look in his eyes was another lie. Not the licentious beast at all but a seasoned predator looking down on his prey. And then she saw it. Behind him leaning again a cargo container. Another woman, this one wearing a black outfit that could easily substitute for a military uniform. But that didn't make any sense if he was...

She detached herself from the container and stepped forward. A light frame, long blonde hair, not particularly tall. Why would someone of that description be here? Her mind was racing, jumping from one conclusion to the next knowing all of them were wrong.

"Stay back or I'll kill you both," she said, all but shouting. It was difficult to stand still; harder to know what to do to escape from the game they were so obviously playing. And then the woman moved into the moonlight and Regina had to step back in shock. So Harper had failed. If she was here, they must all be dead.

"Hello, Lieutenant," Eliza Anders said, head turned to one side. The slightest hint of a grin was growing as she surveyed the situation. "But what's this? You're holding a good friend of mine hostage and he's done nothing to deserve it." Her expression hardened. "You, on the other hand, do deserve what's happening to you."

It was too much. If they'd simply tortured her, if he'd stormed in and beaten her to unconsciousness, even raped her as Harper told her they would, it couldn't have compared to this. The anticipation, knowing she held the pistol and knowing they were in total control and that every move she could make had been predicted. The more she fought the worse it would be, was that it?

She took another step back. "Just stay away. I haven't done anything to hurt you or Royce. Take one step closer and he's dead, you understand? And so are you."

Anders did grin this time. "I wouldn't be so hasty. We captured the blonde one too. Edward Kirk the errant researcher. If you pull the trigger we'll have to punish him. You've caused so much trouble in the space of a month, you know. It's fortunate for me that I had to be in Merestan anyway, or I'd have missed this opportunity."

It was a lie. She knew it had to be a lie. Kirk wasn't stupid enough to be captured, not like that. He'd have understood when she told him to run. Surely he trusted her enough to do that. Then she'd have to trust in his abilities too. She raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.

And a soft click sealed her fate. Her intended target stepped forward and seized the pistol, smashing her jaw with its handle and filling her mouth with the metallic taste of blood. His heavy boot landed in her stomach and she fell to the floor. Another substantial blow from above and she collapsed entirely, coughing heavily, her back searing with pain.

A sardonic clap returned her attention to the woman standing above her. "You guessed right. We didn't capture Kirk. Points deducted for not guessing the pistol was unloaded. Kosra is too important to risk playing with you. I have to thank you for capturing him."

_Kosra? _Regina tried to look up and failed, but Anders guessed her intent. "Yes, that Kosra. He wasn't always the militia leader, of course, but the old Kosra fell on a knife. This one is very sympathetic to our cause."

"Why are you doing this? What have I done to make you think this is necessary?" Regina asked, voice hoarse and punctuated by fits of coughing. She pulled herself up into a sitting position and looked at them.

"Nothing."

That wasn't possible. "What? I didn't…"

"Nothing," Anders repeated, staring blankly at her captive. "You're just bait for the real target. I know you've done some frustrating things, but you're really not why I'm here. Sorry to disappoint."

"Kirk?"

"Anton would be grateful if I brought back that creature," Anders said, a thoughtful expression overtaking her. "But no, not him. You know he's quite likely to try and rescue you? I'd say there's a one in three chance he'll make an attempt. I tried to maximise that chance during our talk, so you really ought to thank me."

Kosra stepped back and retrieved the pistol, offering it to her, even showing deference as he did so.

"I don't like guns very much," Anders said as she examined and loaded the pistol. "Too crude. And unreliable. My aim's not the best either. You can offset that by having someone else use the gun for you, which is one way to describe all your accomplishments, Lieutenant Regina."

She looked up at Kosra. "Could you pick her up? I promised Edward visual motivation, and after what I said I'd do if he lied to me I suppose I'd better not lie to him. That would give him the wrong impression."

Regina felt herself being pulled up, his rough hands wrapping themselves around her midsection. All the things she wanted to ask retreated to the back of her mind. She'd known Anders was a brilliant if ruthless strategist well before they'd met. This was entirely different, like the cold efficient commander she'd met had only been a visage she'd chosen to wear for the right occasions.

Kosra forced her to sit on a wooden chair with a surprising amount of delicacy before tying her hands and legs together.

"It's Harper you want, isn't it? Not me, not Kirk, just him?" Regina said, eyes widening with dread when Anders retrieved a filthy cloth bag from the wall.

She slowly nodded. "He's a problem. And he's made the two of you into problems. I was so sure he'd changed. Was he only pretending? I suppose you wouldn't know either."

"If you think he'd ever risk himself to save anyone, I don't think we met the same Harper."

"You're supposed to be the dangerous one, not the stupid one. Do you think he had to save you from being arrested? Of course Gail was going to arrange a pardon once you'd been taken in, but I don't think he knew that. And he saved Kirk from assassination. Well, I suppose he _was_ the one who told Pretsin where to find him in the first place. He's a copy of me, in many ways, and I simply can't teach something I don't know."

Was that another lie? How could it be, she and Kirk had both realised Harper had kept them separate from Royce ever since his arrival. That entire day was staged? Gail _had_ tried to help her after all? She hadn't ever believed he'd lift a finger for her sake.

"I should really thank you. If you hadn't helped him with that plan I'd probably be dead. He beat me, you know. Captured me under Ibis Island," Anders said, her tone soft and thoughtful. She pulled a long knife from the bag and ran her finger across it. "But Gail, idiot that he is, has been looking after Pretsin's orphaned daughter. Right before he would've killed me Harper saw her and had a sentimental fit, so I stuck a piece of sheet metal into his spine."

She looked down at her captive. "More than that, when I killed that shadow of his, Kosirim, he was genuinely distressed. And when I pointed the gun at his only friend, laying there covered in blood and crawling along the floor, I knew he still cared. He really was hiding it for all those years. You're probably the first person he's helped in a long time, you know."

Anders ran the knife lightly across the exposed skin on her arm and leaned in. "And that's why he's not going to leave you with me," she whispered in Regina's ear. More pressure. She felt a sharp sting and gasped. A shallow cut from her elbow to her wrist left a distinctive red line welling with blood.

Something was wrong. That thought overtook all others. This was not a standard military procedure. "Does Royce know you're doing this?"

That question seemed to interest her. "I plan his campaigns and I do the most distasteful work myself. He must know, I think, but he pretends it's not happening. As I said, I'm not actually here just to clean up after you and your new friends. We can't declare open rebellion until the establishment is portrayed as so irredeemably awful that nobody questions our intentions, not if we want to give the right impression."

"But Hereson's troops are pulling back to avoid conflict with civilians," Regina pointed out, hoping to delay her.

It didn't work. Another line, this one deeper, around her left bicep. She clenched her teeth to avoid voicing her pain, but the blood was already steadily dripping down her arm onto the concrete below.

Anders nodded her agreement. "Yes, you're right. That's Gail's idea, no doubt. I really ought to have disposed of him when I had the chance, but that would've looked undiplomatic. Don't worry. Nobody said the atrocity had to be committed by them, after all, only blamed on them. You're new to this, aren't you?"

Another slash to her forearm, this one much deeper than the last. Regina barely restrained herself from screaming when she pressed the knife into the muscle under the skin and twisted. And then another cut, another that ripped a chunk of skin off entirely; another gash on the underside of her upper arm and she couldn't hold it back any longer.

Finally, after what felt like days, Anders stood back and lowered the blade. The chair and the floor under it were soaked in blood, but the cuts were limited to Regina's left arm only, beginning at the wrist and ending at the shoulder.

"I do apologise for this. There's no other way to be sure they'll come, you see. This is your fault for running away with men you don't know." She looked at the tall man to her side and threw something from the bag at him. "Could you take a photograph, please? I promised Edward I'd send one." He knelt down and took the photograph, as requested. She tried not to show how much pain she was feeling and failed. Her arm, crimson and slippery, burned with the pain of more cuts than she could count. She was breathing heavily, trying to focus on anything other than what was happening in front of her.

Anders retrieved the camera and pocketed it. "Thank you. It's difficult to find useful supporters. I'll approve the transfer of equipment to your group as a bonus for your hard work." She dropped the knife back in the bag without cleaning it and looked between the two of them.

"That should be enough to keep them away from politics for a few days. I'm going to have to go and organise our contribution to Hereson's big event, so I'll leave you to it. Any contact from Kirk or Harper and you let me know immediately. _Capture_, not kill."

Anders turned to leave, but looked over her shoulder when she reached the heavy steel door on the far end. "And yes, it's your turn now, Kosra. Just don't damage anything valuable until I tell you to. Not unless you want me to find a third Kosra, one with a pseudonym that's not so stupid."

The door shut with a heavy groan and Regina looked up at the grime-covered windows above Kosra's head. She finally understood what Harper had tried to tell her. Capture was worse than death.

He didn't move, eyes fixed on the door. Her gaze lowered so he'd have to look in her eyes before he did the rest of Anders' work for her. If this was the strategist behind Royce's rebellion she wished nothing but failure and death on the whole lot of them.

Kosra turned around and she focused on her thoughts. She wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last.

He fell to his knees in front of her and pulled someone else from the bag. And yet instead of what Anders had told her was coming, he began cleaning the blood from her arm with a towel.

Regina stared, eyes wide with confusion, until he'd cleaned her arm and bandaged it. But this was another trap, no doubt. That was how it worked. A slight glimpse of hope and then the truth.

Kosra remained still, his expression unreadable. "I'm not going to do it," he finally said, the words emerging in a harsh undertone.

"It worked once. No more. Just get it over with."

"I won't be her puppet." Another lie. She saw something close to distaste in his harsh face.

"Just shut up."

"Believe what you want." He stood up and kicked the bag of tools across the room before leaving. The next hour was spent entirely alone in the silent warehouse, the only source of light the obscured moonlight shining through the old industrial windows.

Anders was wrong. Neither of them would ever risk themselves for her sake, and why should they? Who was she to them? A useful tool for Harper and an amusing distraction for Kirk. It was humiliating, to be used like this. To be tortured not for information, not for personal vengeance, but as a small step in a plan targeting someone else. To be given as a prize to a loyal servant, looked down on even by him.

She leaned back in the chair as far as she could, wincing when the bandages tightened against her exposed flesh. The restraints around her limbs were far too tight to shift and the chair was bolted to the floor. They'd thought it through, clearly.

It still seemed more a dream than reality. She'd met the woman before, heard her speeches, and recognised the respect she had from the military. Why would somebody with so much authority play these perverse games? Memories of her kneeling with the knife in her slender hand, fingers slick with blood, cutting skin away while making what might as well have been small talk, refused to leave Regina's mind no matter how hard she tried to banish them. The pain was a constant reminder, so difficult to endure that her breathing was laboured.

More hours passed filled with feverish thoughts and futile attempts to think of something she could say or do to change the hopeless reality of her situation. The strength needed to hold her head up became too much, and she gradually slipped into a restless sleep.

A calloused hand grasping her shoulder broke through the reprieve of sleep without resistance. Regina tried to lurch back before remembering her situation. The moonlight had given way to the sun's glare entering through the windows on her right.

Her head rose with a crack of dissention from her neck. The muscles in her legs and shoulders were stiff and aching, and a glance to her left showed the bandages had changed colour, from white to faint red.

"Drink," said a low voice on her right. Kosra was back, holding a bottle of water. Regina turned aside, unwilling to tolerate this brute forcing her to drink anything.

He scowled at her, obviously irritated. "She didn't tell me to do this. She didn't tell me to feed you either, just to leave you here until someone showed up to collect you. You think I'm obligated to make sure you don't dehydrate?"

More lies. It would be a trick, no doubt. Harper was right. And yet he didn't seem to be lying. Why would Anders care if she went without food or water for a day or two? And yet he hadn't done anything other than cooperate.

"Give me a reason to believe it," she finally said, voice hoarse from pain and thirst.

He stepped to the left, directly in front of her. "I'm Borginian. I'm here to pay your country back for what it did to mine."

"So? I was in the military. Looks like a good opportunity to me."

He was growing visibly frustrated, she could tell. "Yeah, so I help her torture you, even join in the fun myself? I'm not going to lie and say I wasn't tempted. That'd make me no better than any of the scum who did that to my people. You think she doesn't know that? _Everything_ that woman does or says is a test. She wants me to prove I'm just as bad as she is, and I'm not doing it. Now drink the fucking water before I change my mind."

And she did. Demeaning as it was, she was feeling the effects of dehydration and needed fluids more than either of her captors could have known after the long hike the day before, not to mention the blood loss. Whether he was lying or not there was nothing to be gained by refusing. The moment the cool water hit her parched throat was the only one since her parting with Kirk that hadn't been entirely wretched, but it only lasted a brief few seconds.

"Why is she doing this? What did they do to her?" Regina asked, regretting the show of weakness immediately.

Kosra shrugged. "How should I know? She did this to me too. Told me I was being executed, but it was all an act. I got to the execution chamber and they had the actual Kosra strapped to a bench with a letter stuffed in his mouth."

He paused and rubbed his restless eyes with one hand. "Official statement from Borginian command. Kosra's militia was to directly work under Lieutenant Colonel Eliza Anders. Only thing was, Kosra told this blonde bitch to get fucked, so after I put the note down she slashed his throat and told me I was his replacement. We've been working for her ever since."

Regina looked up at the ceiling with a weak smile, her back aching even from such a small movement. "I had no idea, did I? You happy now, Kirk? We didn't even have a chance."

Kosra remained silent and threw the empty bottle at the wall behind her. It was difficult to imagine that the concerns Regina had always shared with Rick, and even people like Kirk and Harper, could be shared in some small way even by enemies with different cultures and allegiances. Even if they were opposed in every way, someone like him still had his own thoughts and desires.

The heavy grind of the steel side door interrupted her reprieve. Someone entered, but past Kosra's muscular frame it was impossible to tell who other than by the echoing sound of their boots on concrete. Her heart rate rose and she could feel sweat gathering on her forehead. Surely the night before was enough.

"You're both still here? That's convenient." Eliza Anders approached them with one hand wrapped around her long hair, the other holding a black briefcase.

Regina found it difficult even to look at her, but shifted herself around in the chair as much as possible to make her point. "You're surprised?"

She dropped the briefcase and kicked it to the side. "Well, I had expected there would've been a bit more activity while I was away. I've been surprised a few times lately. This scenario is familiar, and I'm trying to remember why that concerns you."

Anders tapped the side of her head to illustrate her ongoing thought process before lazily pointing at Regina. "I remember. I gave a young Borginian woman to your friend, the one who never stops bothering people. I wondered what he'd do, but interrogation was all I cared about and, clearly much like Kosra here, he restrained his baser urges. She was very attractive and nobody would've missed her, and the same can be said for you. Still, there she was, and here you are. Interesting." Regina glanced at the enormous man behind her interrogator; his jaw was clenched in clear anger.

She shrugged. "That's fine. He got the results by befriending her. Now they're never seen apart. Gail approved, you know. He was happy to see his student with a friend, or lover, or whatever she is. He didn't say it, but he never says anything. What good is devotion when it's never expressed?"

That was more than enough to get her attention. "Why was Gail with you?"

"He came to negotiate at a demanding time. Not that we were ever interested. Did you know General Hereson offered to put me in charge in southern command? I'm not interested in administration, so it was an entirely wasted offer. He must be panicking to offer one of the five most powerful positions in the nation to a young woman. Always a bit of a closet sexist, that one."

"You're more interested in torture, right?" All she could hope was that Gail had been allowed to leave safely. She said as much earlier, Regina thought she'd heard, but the night before was too painful to remember clearly.

"Not especially, but more than administration. You can learn a lot from torture. Even when it doesn't happen, as the two of you just learned. As for your arm, that was necessary. Harper will know what it means and come to save you. Your new friend Edward should provide the rest of the leverage needed." Anders' face showed little more than boredom, as if she were simply answering questions at a public interview.

"Why's he so important? What'd he do to you?" Keep her in a good mood and maybe she won't start flaying my leg this time, Regina thought bitterly.

"If you haven't guessed by now you're in the wrong line of work." She absent-mindedly ran a finger over Kosra's chest. "As for the importance of the matter, normally it could wait. I just need to keep both him and Edward busy for a few days."

This was a test. She knew it was a test because her adversary was grinning, and she rarely showed any emotion at all. Kosra was right, Harper was right, they were all right.

"You're here to prepare for Royce's attack?" Regina guessed.

"Well done. You hinted at this earlier, you know, so you're not hopeless. Hereson is going to announce a reforms package to try and diffuse the tension among the populace in two days. This would be a problem."

"What's the solution?" Indulge her and hope she leaves quietly.

Anders took a step closer, head slightly tilted. Even such a slight movement was threatening. "If I tell you and you escape, I lose. But that makes it more exciting, I think. We're going to assassinate a government minister, Vorman. Then we'll start questioning the spectators in an attempt to 'find the culprit', but in the uniforms of Hereson's personal soldiers. It'll get bloody. Very messy, very quickly. The aftermath will be such a surge of violence and outrage that we'll have all the justification to call for a legitimate overthrow of the government. Anyone opposing us will be implicitly supporting the indiscriminate use of military force on innocent civilians."

Regina was used to killing, and so much of her life had been defined by violence. That they would go so far, butchering their own supporters and blaming a man trying to avoid a civil war peacefully, to justify their revolution—how could they defend that? She looked at Kosra, trying to hide the movement of her head, and the tall man couldn't help but meet her stare. There was a hint of discomfort, almost anxiety, in his otherwise blank stare.

"Did Royce approve this plan?"

"He didn't ask what my methods would be. He's too smart to want to know, because if he knew he couldn't continue the way he has to. He needs me more than I need him."

The dull light of the morning sun shifted and intensified, illuminating the three of them. Anders in her utilitarian outfit, an empty look on her youthful face. Kosra in his militia uniform. Regina in the bloodstained remnants of her black sleeveless shirt, chosen especially because she wanted to look like a regular person for just one day. For herself, and for him. There was little hope, she knew, for any of them.

"Harper would have tried to stop me. He's done it in the past. And he'd have brought you in on it, as well as that slut and the rest of his miserable friends. Too much of a risk. I don't like losing." And now she was speaking quietly and softly, almost to herself.

"You're willing to use these methods, but for what? Your revolution is meaningless if you have to make it happen this way."

"I don't particularly care about anything as abstract as revolution. I like to watch people, and to learn how they think, and how they work, and what their limits are physically and ethically, and why they think they're alive. And once I understand them I like to break them."

"If they knew they wouldn't follow you. None of them. So you're just helping him start this conflict because you get off on making people miserable, is that it?" Regina asked, wanting to be disgusted, trying to be shocked, and ultimately finding she wasn't even surprised.

"It's not nearly as sadistic as it sounds. A desire to understand other people is perfectly natural." Another step closer. "What other goal would you have me strive for?" The interrogator brushed her hand over the bandages on Regina's arm. "Status, power, respect? Any of those? I have them all and they bore me. Anton lied when he said ideology would give me a reason to live."

She continued without pause. "Do you know why you annoy me? You think I'm a monster for torturing you. You knew that armies under my command had killed thousands and that was fine, but it was only when I tied you to a chair and started cutting pieces off your arm that you changed your mind.

Anders knelt down and stared at Regina for a long, disquieting moment. "He was the same way. Dissatisfied, tried to pretend resisting my army made his life meaningful. Eventually he admitted it was a lie. I admired that."

And now they were back to Harper. The lack of emotion in her eyes or face seemed incompatible with the near obsession she had with the man. Again she brushed a hand over Regina's bandages, grasping the lean muscle with two fingers.

"I gave him a reason to live. He wanted to stop me from ever doing it again. So much emotion that he just couldn't remember how dull it all was. I think I've done the same for Edward. A developing relationship with someone like you. The return of his research. Independence from the military. I took it all from him in one day. That changes people."

Her grip tightened, only slightly, but she released it and stood up. "We'll see what they do now. I've given them such an opportunity, it'd be a shame if they wasted it by running away." Her emotionless stare fixed itself on Regina's face. "But I'm being unfair. You know Kirk better than I do: what do you think he'll do?"

Trick question. If she got the answer wrong she'd be punished, that was how this had to work. Still, it was an obvious question. If she'd set this elaborate game up and invited both of them to play, what would they do? What would Anders do if they tried to run? Cut her throat and leave her there to rot, most likely.

"It depends," she murmured, eyes fixed on the bloodstained floor below. "Harper will know it's a trap. He won't fall for it. Just what did you do to him anyway?" No sooner than she said it did the inherent contradiction become apparent and she looked up. "But I'm the bait to lure him in?"

Anders nodded. "He wouldn't come, even knowing what could happen," she said morosely, trailing off only to look up with renewed energy. "But Edward will come. Every time you take something from him he tries to run away. I watched him on the verge of tears when Anton cancelled his project. He ran all the way to Borginia that time. Now there's nowhere left to run and I've left him Harper and his woman to use as pawns. He'll bring them all here, don't you see? And if he doesn't that's still fine; I've lost nothing, they've lost everything."

This had definitely gone beyond any level of thought required by strategy. She had them trapped, no doubt, whether they fell for it or not. Privately Regina thought she knew just from her reputation how little hope they had. Eliza Anders, the masterful strategist of the west, supported by an enormous military force even if she had temporarily abandoned their protection, would get what she wanted.

"Oh, there's one more thing," Anders said with an almost apologetic shrug. "Telling you that changed your status from non-threat to potentially dangerous. There are so few people I can speak to honestly, you see, that I get carried away sometimes."

"That's… fine?" Regina said cautiously, expecting another trap.

"No, it's not. Now if you run away too early it's going to cause some problems. I should have told you before we had our conversation." Her hand darted to her belt, they all saw what she was doing, but it was far too late: she buried the short knife in the underside of Regina's thigh and held it there, hand twitching once or twice.

This time it was too much. A painful hiss turned into a shriek when Anders twisted the knife and pulled it out, thick red blood dripping from her lithe fingers.

"Kosra, bandage it up," she ordered, wiping her hand clean on Regina's shirt. "I regret it, but someone like you could easily escape. Now you'll be in no position to run. We'll speak again before long, no doubt."

By the time Regina could bear the pain of focusing again Anders was gone, having left her pawn to clean up. When he cleaned the wound she didn't have the strength to bother pretending the pain wasn't agonising, but he worked with the efficiency of a practiced medical professional and sealed the wound as best he could, bandaging most of her thigh as he did so.

"I don't know what you did. Whatever it was, you shouldn't have got involved in this," he muttered, throwing the well-used roll of bandages back in the bag of tools.

"I dared to think for myself," she replied, hearing how weak her voice was and hating it.

"Is that so? I'll remember not to do that. Kosra tried it and got his throat cut. You tried it and you probably wish you'd had your throat cut. I wouldn't want to be this guy she's trying to lure in, I'll tell you that much."

It was easy to agree with him. That he was capable of enough compassion—no, it was surely pity—to have treated her as he had was fortunate enough. To expect any more was surely pointless, and the thought of Edward Kirk and Frank Harper as her last remaining friends inspired even less hope. Rick, Gail, even Mirzin: all had decided their allegiances, and all she'd really wanted was to find some degree of satisfaction with her own life. To be able to respect herself for something other than her abilities.

Was it such a ridiculous notion? As she adjusted to the throbbing in her thigh, now excruciating to move even slightly, Regina realised above all else that Anders had believed they would come back for her. If the woman truly was such an infallible strategist, as she'd been so willing to admit when it came to their chances of defeat, then perhaps she was right. Would Kirk finally grow tired of running and hiding from the people who'd ruined his life so many times? If that was her only hope then it was a small one.

There was so little she could do to change the outcome. Kosra looked back for a brief moment before walking away. Her arm would be covered in scars for the rest of her life and her left leg wasn't moving properly even in the restricted range of motion allowed by her restraints. She'd been stripped of everything she'd valued, even mobility, and the only thing left to do was wait.


	17. Chapter 17

_Note: Lots of monologues, I'm not exactly experienced with those. Detailed reviews would be appreciated for this one. Also, this is the first time anything I've written's broken the 100k mark, so that's nice. Once you're this far in it's much easier to maintain momentum. I say that now, but we'll see.  
_

_Warning for explicit content. Really._

After a certain point discomfort becomes so ubiquitous that the urge to question it, to try to change it, fades away entirely. Accepting the judgements of others, of your betters, could only be considered natural, even more so when your own decisions have always been so hopelessly flawed. There was no shame in accepting your own flaws. The end result, after all, is the same.

Or so Gail told himself each and every time the urge to question an order tried to crawl into the back of his mind. It never lasted long. How could it when he had such a collection of failures to offer in defence of his way of life?

Nevertheless, it was becoming actively troubling. Despite his failure to force Colonel Royce to grant even a single concession to the military, General Hereson embraced him upon his return. No punishment, no admonishment; indeed, he was actually promoted to the dubious and unofficial, though powerful, position of the head of the general's personal guard. There was little guarding expected, in reality, except in the abstract sense. It'd been close to a week since they left for the diplomatic mission, such as it was, and he'd been extraordinarily busy ever since.

Hereson wasn't surprised at their obstinacy. Even hearing how Lieutenant Colonel Anders had turned down the command of southern headquarters, offered even after listening to her insults and watching her ignore all protocol to torment valuable prisoners instead of securing them, hadn't surprised him. Prisoners who'd used that time to escape. It was fortunate that she simply laughed at the general's offer, or would've been if not for the implications of their confidence.

"Something wrong? You're even less cheerful than usual," the man at his side asked as the elevator doors closed behind them, glancing up with an amused glint in his eyes.

"You know what I think, sir," Gail replied, uncomfortable with even that much familiarity.

"You're going to scare our guest if you act like this, you know."

He nodded humourlessly and made a futile attempt to stop scowling.

Hereson laughed. "That's the best you can do, I know." His amusement vanished as quickly as it'd appeared. "Just be careful with what you tell him. We can't let him send any troubling news back to central command just yet, not before the end of the week."

Gail nodded again, much more willingly. "I understand. We can't expect the civilian government to properly understand military matters, at least not yet."

"Exactly," Hereson replied. They stopped in front of an elegantly carved mahogany door, which Gail opened.

The back halls of the western command centre's eighth floor were certainly beautiful, built from the finest materials the country had to offer. Some of the designs even looked to incorporate Borginian technology. The conference room they'd just entered was reserved, under usual circumstances, for the very highest authorities and their assistants. It was a great honour to be allowed inside.

Gail closed the door behind them and waited at the entrance. The government's representative, the finance minister unfortunate enough to have been caught in the city when the conflict began, was already seated. Minister Vorman was tall and wiry, one of those unfortunate men who looked to have been awake for years on end. It would be a mistake to treat him so carelessly because of his appearance, they both knew.

They started with the required pleasantries, though it was obvious neither of them was in the mood for small talk. Economic matters, things which ought not to have required a military officer's input in most countries, were the next topic. Gail began to wonder why he was allowed to listen to these discussions. So little of what Hereson did was routine or even orderly.

Gail knew one thing without it ever being explicitly said. That he'd chosen to come back from Ibis Island, giving up his friendship with Royce, and that Hereson appreciated that enough to bring him, unofficially or not, into his inner circle. Not that it was a hard decision. Even if he sympathised with the man's objectives, and even if he admired him: his methods, and especially his approval of _her_ methods, were growing more contemptible by the week. Merestan was already a battlefield whether they admitted it or not, and they still refused to make their move.

A short wave brought his attention back to the important matter at hand. "This is something you can assist with, Gail," Hereson said, gesturing at a third seat beside him, which he reluctantly took. "Give Vorman a broad assessment of the situation from your perspective."

He glanced over at the finance minister. "Gail's the one I sent to negotiate with them as you requested, even though I told you it was a pointless exercise. He's also met most of the targets at one point or another." Vorman's bored expression changed, showing at least a hint of curiosity, but he remained silent.

Left with little choice, Gail took a deep breath and explained an abridged version of the conflict as he understood it. Leaving out, of course, certain details related to certain people, other details which would've alarmed the minister, and any assessments that might've indicated the situation was out of control. It was a short exchange, all things considered, one hardly worth their time.

"Which means they'll be unable to field any significant force outside their units already in the city until the presentation is complete. Kesler's force focuses on demolition; her units have only ever attacked poorly defended targets. Kosra's units, which we now believe are solely working with Royce, are regrouping after what appears to be an internal dispute. None of the other groups pose any threat," Gail concluded, wiping a drop of sweat from his forehead. Performance anxiety had finally become an issue while sitting in a meeting, of all places.

"Well, that seems to match the information I've been given," Vorman said, deep in thought. "What about the group that destroyed your fuel depot?"

Hereson's relaxed smile faded at the reference. He glanced over at Gail almost imperceptibly.

Did that mean be honest or the opposite? All he could do was use his own judgement, a prospect which didn't inspire much confidence. "I… I don't believe they'll be a problem in the future" he finally said.

After what he saw on Ibis Island there was no reason to believe they were actively fighting the government. Royce's faction were as much their enemies as his, and that meant… well, he couldn't begin to say. The stolen Stabilizer wasn't much of a risk for the moment, surely, but it said Kirk was alive and well. Regina was there too, unless both his own deductions and every word the man they'd confronted under the island were lies.

"No? I'll have to take your word for it," Vorman said after a long pause. He'd likely expected more, and the quick glance he gave Hereson confirmed it. "That'll do for now. They like it when I send the reports personally, you know, even if it does waste all our time. I'll see you tonight, James," he said, standing up to leave with a polite nod to Gail.

As the door closed behind Vorman they both sighed in relief. "Fortunately for us he's not interested in anything outside his own bank balance," Hereson muttered, his dignified posture collapsing into a far less official slouch.

It was a callous thing to say about the man dictating the nation's financial policy, but ultimately the general was right. Their situation was more precarious than they could risk admitting.

"If we can keep it from him we can keep it from the rest of them. Once the right concessions are on the table they're going to have a hard time justifying any rebellion without a lot of tedious diplomacy. Anton has always preferred dialogue to action, so I expect he'll want to formally respond. Eliza will advise him to strike early and he'll hesitate. If we can force them apart on this that'd be a tremendous result."

Gail nodded again. The night before had seen a great number of ceremonial guards, including those closest to the high level officers and officials, kidnapped from their homes. No demands had been made, no corpses found. It was an action that didn't match the capabilities or the identified intentions of any identified dissidents in the city, an ominous sign if he'd ever seen one. Maintaining the status quo for just one more day was all they needed to do.

Neither of them seemed willing to leave despite their duties. It was difficult, Gail knew, for the general to keep the schedule that he did. Even his own duties took their toll, physically and mentally, and he was twenty years younger than Hereson. There would be time for relaxation later, or so he'd always told himself.

"If you'll excuse me, sir, I'd like to return to my investigation," Gail finally said, standing up with a polite bow, something he'd observed Morrent do more than once.

"As you like. Inform me of any notable developments." Hereson looked at his watch with a grimace and stood up. "Time for more meetings, won't that be fun?"

They parted ways outside the hall, the general leaving for another room further down the hall and Gail for the elevator. It was something to be proud of, he knew, having achieved such a respected position at last. That was easy to understand; not as easy to make himself believe. He found himself questioning the path he'd chosen so often. His friends, his companions, his allies, his enemies: when did it become so difficult to distinguish one from another?

He emerged on the ground floor and surveyed the swarms of people below with a distasteful sigh. One disadvantage to working in one of the most important buildings in the nation was the sheer amount of activity he had to endure.

The door to his makeshift team's improvised office was already open, he noted with some surprise. They were using an empty building behind the SORT rooms; a quiet retreat from the noise of the main building was something they all needed.

He almost stopped at the door, reluctant to enter. Uncertainty could easily be a death sentence in his line of work; something would have to be done about it before long.

"Oh, you're back already? How's Vorman doing?" asked the impertinent voice of Hereson's assistant, Richard Morrent, as soon as he saw Gail.

"Does it matter?"

"Guess not," Richard said, shrugging. He was too energetic by far, though the comparison Gail tried to make with Rick ended the moment he realised the man's sense of justice was non-existent. "We've been lying to him for years. He probably knows, but… how did I put it last time? Financial lubrication? Yeah, that's it."

This was not a good start. Choosing to terminate the conversation entirely he looked around the relatively large, comfortably appointed office for his own assistant, though he made no formal expectations of her after Ibis Island.

Miranda Pretsin was laying on an enormous couch, something Morrent had ordered using official funds. He didn't bother asking whether that was a legal use of military money or not. Hereson seemed completely uninterested in how his money was used, so Gail decided for his own sanity not to give it much thought when twice his yearly salary was spent on furniture. Diplomacy was something he'd neglected for far too long, something his brief experience under Hereson had made clear all too quickly.

He glanced at Richard, who shrugged with a reassuring smile. After their debriefing he'd arranged a full medical team for her, though she'd stubbornly resisted hospitalisation under any circumstances. Instead she spent the days in the command centre helping with various tasks when able, usually receiving and analysing information related to their targets and passing the useful contacts to Gail for investigation. Medical appointments and supervision were required and likely would be for a long time. He knew Morrent didn't have to help her the way he did, and he also knew he was hanging around for her benefit. A man of his social status would be welcomed anywhere, they all knew, and yet here he was with a disgraced officer's daughter.

"How're you holding up today?" he asked, aware he still couldn't say it without it sounding unnatural. Nobody else was left to ask her, however, so he did.

She pulled herself up and stared at him. "Same as usual. Thanks for asking, though."

Well, it could be worse. He'd read her file at her request. Permanent illnesses were never going to be easy to deal with, even without what she'd seen under Ibis Island. "Any new leads?" he asked, telling himself he didn't have the time for small talk to hide his discomfort.

Miranda nodded with an odd look at the man behind Gail. "A report from the western coastal district, one of the old commercial areas. Apparently a large group of militia members took over the area for a few hours and disappeared without making any demands."

Unusual, but not excessively so. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, there was a call. A woman told me she wanted to speak to you. She knew your name," she murmured, looking at her slender hand. "I have her instructions here. She said it was urgent and only you would understand." She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and handed it to him.

Something about this process was wrong. The number of people who knew him by name was incredibly small. The number outside the command centre who would need to use such an obscure method of contact...

"I'll take the call now. This could be what we've been looking for." What he hoped for above anything else was that Regina was trying to contact him at last. If only he could talk to her, explain what he'd done, she could be pardoned, surely. It was his fault, and Hereson understood the need to forgive enemies more than most.

"Request for a video call, how interesting," Richard said, leaning over Gail's chair.

Someone he knew, then, or one with reason to learn who he was. Regina preferably, but Kesler was an option. Anders, perhaps? But Miranda would have recognised her voice, so…

A panicked shout from behind alerted him to the screen. A young woman he couldn't help but recognise was staring back at him from what looked to be the inside of an industrial building. Long brown hair, a solemn stare, and almost a hint of nervousness marked out the woman he'd contended with under Ibis Island.

"You've got some nerve. I suppose you're not going to hand that Stabilizer to the authorities?" he asked, restraining the urge to be too aggressive.

She shook her head. "We can't do that," she said. Her voice was so soft he had to raise the volume. "And I'm sorry for scaring your friend. We didn't mean to hurt her."

"Then you shouldn't have—"Gail began, but he forced himself to stop. There was nothing to be gained arguing that, and he knew all she'd have to do is mention Regina's involvement to put him in his place.

He shook his head with a scowl. "What do you want, and why'd Harper make you do this? Too scared to face me after what he said?"

She flinched. Not a very intimidating threat, if that's what this was going to be. "You wouldn't have listened to him."

Valid point. "I'll give you one chance. Make it quick."

A brief smile was his reward, and not for the first time he wondered if this was a deliberate act. He'd last seen her storming a facility with a submachine gun.

"I need to show you something in person. Alone."

He almost laughed. "So you can finish me off? You really thought it'd be that easy?"

"I'm afraid if you aren't willing to meet us then someone you're very fond of is going to suffer," a louder, much drier voice said from the side of the screen.

Even knowing the man must be there didn't compare to seeing him again for the first time. "Kirk, you're there too? I was hoping I'd never have to see you again."

The man in question sat next to his messenger. His blonde hair was even longer than before, though he'd lost the lab coat and the deranged face of a man who hadn't slept in days.

"Hiding? You're an important man now, I hear, and your enemies kept me locked up in a dungeon. These good people," Kirk said in his usual smug manner, putting a hand on her shoulder for emphasis, "as well as your friend Regina, and mine if you believe it, rescued me. We've been independent ever since."

Independent. The word felt wrong. His instinct was to take control of the situation by any means necessary. Still, it occurred to him that he had no control over this. "Explain your meaning."

Kirk shrugged. "We've all been tormented for so long, you see, that we've given up taking orders. We'd hoped to stay out of the way for a while until you sort out all this internal squabbling for yourselves, but the choice is out of my hands now."

One thing he had learned: never let Kirk start an argument. "I'll concede one thing: you're not with Royce, and you're not with the military. Let me speak to Regina and I'll agree to your meeting."

And that removed any hint of smugness from the wayward researcher's face. Any satisfaction he felt was short lived; the man's face almost looked troubled. His companion was biting her lip and trying to shrink into the background.

"She's why we need to meet. You think I'd be contacting you for anything else?"

There was something wrong here. He wasn't qualified to say what, but this was closer to pleading than threatening. He glanced behind him and saw they were both watching, Richard with a look of bemusement on his face. Miranda almost seemed fascinated, her eyes fixed on the screen. He'd have preferred to do this in private, but after hearing so much that'd only make it worse.

Gail looked down at the table for a moment. Was it even a choice? What would the general say he should do? "Fine. Public place, no weapons." He looked back at his own allies. "If I don't contact you every hour assume it was a trap."

"This benefits us both, and when you understand why this is necessary you'll thank me," Kirk said. "Do you remember which hotel your friend was staying in? I suspect you do. We'll meet there."

Gail stiffly nodded his agreement and they ended the transmission. That was harder than it should have been, no doubt, but he stood up to leave anyway.

"You're seriously going through with it?" Richard asked. "Well, good luck. I'll handle your backup after the hour, but I figure you'll be fine. Treat this diplomatically, and that means no violence if it can be avoided. We've got too many enemies as it is without you adding them to the list. The first one was pretty cute, so I might have to admit some bias."

"Don't be too hard on them, alright? They could've killed us and they didn't," Miranda said, trying to sound positive without much success. He didn't share her optimism.

He looked back from the door and they both waved. A nice show of confidence in his abilities. That was one way to look at it.

It was an especially cold day, one of the first hints that summer was well and truly finished. The journey from the elevated command centre into the depths of the western district was entirely uneventful despite the relative lack of patrols in that sector. Regina's favourite hotel, though she'd always claimed to hate it, was in an especially ugly district, one he'd hoped to avoid.

The hotel was all but empty, something that could easily have been taken as a warning sign if he weren't as familiar with the place and its lack of business as he was. The bar was the most likely meeting place; he entered, noting a near-dead palm beginning to turn brown in the centre of the floor. Only one person was present, and she was sitting at a table in the centre of the room looking terribly nervous.

He took the seat across from her. "Not a trap after all? I'm surprised," Gail said, though at this point he'd have been more surprised if it was. What threat did he pose now except when there in person?

"Not a particularly frightening one, anyway," a sardonic voice said, and he looked behind only to see Edward Kirk slink out from behind a pillar. No, not especially frightening, although he knew the man was capable of violence.

Kirk took the seat between them and leaned in. "Well this is nice, isn't it?"

"Why are you here, Kirk?"

"Quite simply because I don't know what she's going to say either. We're the spectators here, although I warn you not to get comfortable. It's not going to be a pleasant day for any of us."

An implied threat? No, it didn't seem that way. "First I want to know who you are."

"She tells me her name is Jane. I doubt many of us have the luxury of asking whether that's her real name," Kirk said, looking up for a second. "Other than me, that is. I always liked my name, so why change it?"

Valid point or not, a likely pseudonym was a poor way to establish trust. Sitting with these people was undeniably difficult; both of them were once his enemies and likely still were.

She looked between them both, clearly uncomfortable. It occurred to him that he had nearly killed her twice.

"Could you tell me who your real enemy is?" Jane asked, still nervous.

Odd question, he thought, given their own status. "Colonel Anton Royce," Gail answered with some hesitation. "He's tearing his own country apart and I have to stop him. You should appreciate that. Both of you."

"We do, of course, although I hope you appreciate now how misguided you were, kidnapping me for his benefit," Kirk said, a hint of his usual arrogance returning.

Gail didn't dignify that with a response. "You said you contacted me because of Regina. She was with you, Kirk, I know she was. If you've hurt her expect this to end with an entire battalion hunting both of you and your friends down. I'll handle the executions myself."

"Calm down, you're always jumping to the wrong conclusions," Kirk snapped. "She saved me in more ways than one, if you must know, and of course you must, so all I want to do is return the favour. She took _everything_ from us, you understand? It's all gone."

That was the second most ominous thing he'd heard in the past few hours. "Explain yourself. Who took what? If you think being vague's going to get you anywhere—"

"I need to show you something, and then he needs to show you something," Jane said. She took a deep breath as if preparing to speak again, visibly hesitated and bit her lip; finally she pulled up the left sleeve of her woollen coat.

At first Gail had trouble seeing what she wanted him to see. Her forearm was bandaged in the place it'd been shot, but the skin around it and on the other side was severely scarred. Her upper arm was little more than a thick mass of scar tissue, but it reached from her pale shoulder all the way down to her wrist, even extending to the palm of her hand. Certain pieces of skin looked to have been flayed and poorly treated.

"You were tortured?" Gail murmured. She extended her arm across the table. It was a methodical piece of work. The cuts almost formed a pattern in places, as if they were deliberately placed for a certain effect.

He wasn't the only one silenced by the sight. Kirk was watching with something resembling distaste on his face. "Now that you've seen her, I need you to look at something else. Please try not to react without thought, if you're capable of that." He pulled a photograph from his pocket and handed it to Gail.

The setting was industrial, a warehouse or factory floor. A young woman with black hair was strapped to a chair and the chair was bolted to the floor. Her left arm was in ruins, slashed in some places, stabbed in others. Her pale skin was slippery, dripping with her own blood, and more ran down the chair onto the filthy concrete. It was an expression of agony and hopelessness and yet she was trying to hide her pain, he could tell.

"This is her, isn't it?" His hands were trembling against his will, his jaw so tight he could barely speak. "If this wasn't you then who was it? Tell me and I'll let you leave here alive."

"You need to know why—"Kirk began to say, but Gail's hand reached across the table in a second and pulled him from his seat.

"I told you not to be vague. Tell me this wasn't you or I'll give you a reason to tell me," Gail said, closing his hand around the man's throat. Did they bring him here just for this? Blackmail, was that it? His arm was shaking; Kirk's attempts to shake off his grip were entirely futile.

"You know who it was, how could you not?" Jane said, pleading with him to stop. She tried to pull them apart but Gail pushed her to the floor effortlessly. "You saw her do it to us again, you even tried to stop her, just let him go." She was terrified, he knew, with a panicked voice and shaking body, but it was so hard not to blame them, to choose not to take the easy way out.

He threw Kirk back with a groan of revulsion and collapsed into the chair, his head in his hands. He'd done it again. He disgusted himself. After all this he was the same man he always was with the same failings. Restraining himself from shouting from sheer frustration was next to impossible, but he managed to do it after looking back and seeing how tense they both were.

They'd brought this information to him at great risk to themselves. That much was true. Believing Kirk's motives were anything but malevolent was extraordinarily difficult even though he knew so little about either of them. Of course it was. "Look, I… I should've handled that differently." Couldn't even apologise, as usual.

"There's no need to apologise to me," Kirk muttered, the words coming out with difficulty. "I did the same thing to her when I realised. We're all despicable."

Gail stared at him. Edward Kirk was the last man he'd ever have pictured caring enough about anyone to lose his composure. He remained silent, having said and done far too much already.

"This picture was sent as a warning. The sender is trying to lure the two of us and a man I suspect you must despise into a trap," Kirk said.

Just the facts. No personal observations. "What's the message? Why do this to Regina's left arm only?"

"Because the message is for me, and for Harper," Jane murmured, running a finger over her scars.

"This is the time to tell me who you are, and who he is," Kirk said. He was actually trying to be sympathetic, Gail could tell, because he was attempting the same thing with difficulty. Was her subdued manner an act to make that easier? It was too difficult to say.

After a long moment of thought she sighed. "We're nothing special, we've simply lived far too long. We lived in the northernmost part of Alvernia, the states that wouldn't submit to full rule from central command," she said, tracing a pattern on the scars. "When your military invaded we tried to resist and we were doing pretty well."

This was a story Gail had heard from only one perspective. It was not spoken of often, or unless in great need. His own youth during the Borginian subjugation served as an all too bitter reminder of the truth of this.

"He and I were members of one of the more successful groups. We knew we couldn't win by force, but we still nearly forced a stalemate and we were sending people to tell the world what they were doing. It was working."

"What changed?" Kirk asked, his eyes gleaming with undisguised interest.

"The useless commander managing the invasion died a violent death only to be replaced with the upcoming prodigy Eliza Anders," said a harsh voice from the bar. Gail turned his head, but he'd seen this coming ever since Kirk's appearance. Frank Harper had entered behind them. The fierceness and spite he'd seen under Ibis Island were gone, replaced by a man who looked too weary to continue fighting.

Just the facts. No personal observations. Diplomacy was the solution, the general would surely say. Gail repeated that thought as Harper threw himself into the last seat. If this was Kirk's idea, he'd shown more tact than Gail had believed possible. If Harper had been there at the start he'd have thrown it all aside to arrest him without a second thought.

"We kept fighting, of course, but she learned our strategies. Guessed our weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Tested us, again and again, so much we didn't know what to do. We weren't trained in this, weren't much more than a collection of peasants. We didn't know how to respond, especially since her predecessor was so incompetent. Eventually she managed to split our force in half by staging a mass public execution and waiting for us to try and rescue them. It all went to hell after that."

"I stayed behind with him," Jane said, staring at the table. "The other half of the group raided the execution ground. The civilians had already been killed when they arrived. They captured everyone and dared us to come and rescue them on the same site, and when we wouldn't she had them left there until they died from dehydration. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, just knowing they were there and we could do nothing. So many bodies rotting in the snow. Half of them asked the soldiers to shoot them, and I would've done the same."

"After that it didn't take long. Every opportunity was a trap. She had her soldiers dress up as civilians, so much so that we couldn't approach the public anymore. They bombed a food bank disguised as us and we lost half our credibility in a single night. She offered rewards to any traitors in the ranks and followed through with them. Some of those men are still governing because of the deals they made with her," Harper said, continuing to list atrocity after atrocity. Gail's mind was filled with memories of Borginia and the things he'd done. After so long he'd hoped the pain would've lessened.

"Eventually it was too much. There were only thirty of us left and she captured us all. Told us the game had grown stale, even dressed up like a regular soldier to do it. The war continued even though our area was finally taken. We thought it was over, but we didn't understand her," she said, still tracing her scars.

"You saw her under that island," Harper said, meeting Gail's gaze directly. "She doesn't like to kill her prisoners. It's all about understanding them, getting into their heads. That's the start, anyway."

Knowledge of their nation's atrocities was hidden, in theory. A public secret in reality, often accepted as necessary or simply the way of the world. He'd never met anyone who'd been on the receiving end of their military's overwhelming force, much else someone who'd survived so long.

"You were in the military. An officer, even promoted to Major just last year," Gail pointed out, trying to find a hole in his story. Even if it were true, there was no way the Anton Royce he'd known would have let someone so cruel act as his second in command, much less as the only person he ever asked for advice. The man's own involvement in the Borginian conflicts had haunted him for years, and he was at least repentant.

"Our imprisonment was a long one, or so it seemed," Harper said. "She had more than enough time to play with us. The games continued, of course. All of us were kept in the same cell. Some days we'd be questioned, others we'd be well fed and have our wounds treated. Mostly we just sat there bored for days on end. That continued for long enough to make us think she'd forgotten us entirely."

He sighed, running one hand through his greying hair. "That's what we were meant to think. They'd watched for long enough to learn who our leaders were, who we cared for most, who was weakest. I was the deputy leader. The old guy you saw her kill was our leader. I wasn't the type to have many friends, but she," Harper said, pointing at Jane, "was my only real friend and they knew it."

Gail looked between them and at the man who'd brought them there. What was his reasoning? Kirk wasn't a man to do this without cause. Still, he had a feeling he knew where their story was going. He'd seen the reports and the strategies developed in the northern conflict. Many of them were being used in the city even now, and the same name was behind both conflicts.

"After that we were separated into groups. The two of us were one group by ourselves. They never mentioned any of the others again."

Gail wanted to tell them it was enough. That he already understood, that he could picture the rest, that he knew what the message meant. Action was what he needed. The release of having a goal and working toward it. He said nothing.

"They started by cutting her left arm apart, just like she's done to Regina. Every few days they'd come back and do it again. They made me listen some days, watch on others. Once they started to cut the skin off entirely. I begged them to stop so they just did it to me instead. We were treated as sub-human. Not Alvernian, not worth a second thought. Sleep deprivation and dehydration were my punishments while they cut my only friend to pieces." The man he'd seen under Ibis Island had returned, full of bitterness and despair, but without the strength to do more than speak.

"I asked them to kill me after the fifth time," she murmured, avoiding eye contact with any of them. "They refused and made sure we couldn't kill ourselves either. The next time Anders was finally there in person and she offered me a choice: accept another session, or tell her to do it to him instead."

"That's enough," Harper said, so agitated he stood up and scowled at them. "That's all they need to know, the point's been made."

Gail had been thinking the same for the last ten minutes. He knew his update was due. It would be possible to arrange for their imprisonment without difficulty. After what they'd endured imprisonment would surely be worse than death. Even more troubling, if these were the companions Regina had chosen, for whatever reason, who was he to deny her choice? He sent the confirmation that they were not to follow him.

"It's not enough," Kirk whispered, leaning across to look at her. "If you expect me to stop this I need to know what kind of adversary we're facing."

And to his immense surprise she nodded in agreement. Harper's face turned to stone, as if attempting to hide his dismay entirely, and he collapsed into the seat with his head in his hands.

"I refused to answer, and she refused to do anything without an answer. She asked me why I refused an offer that would have spared me any more pain. I told her it would hurt more to know I'd done that to someone else than it would to have it done on me. That my own life was irrelevant, and then he said the same. We wanted her to kill us."

"Yeah, and she thought about that one for a while. Said it was an interesting question, that she needed to _understand_ what we meant," Harper spat, his face twisted into a spiteful glower. "For a while she backed off. Let her personal guards decide what to do with us for a few weeks. I don't believe for a second either of you, especially _you_," he spat, pointing an accusing finger at Gail, "need me to tell you what they decided to do, and I know I'm not going to say it. If you think I'm going to sit here while you make her go through it again this entire deal's off, Kirk."

Kirk looked ready to disagree. That was such an obviously poor decision that Gail knew daring to ask would trigger a response every bit as violent as his own had been, so he raised a hand to silence them all. "You're right. That is enough. You still haven't told me how you became an officer under her command." He stopped himself, remembering the need for diplomacy. "You don't need to go into detail."

"Sometimes I still ask myself that. After the tortures were finished she changed tactics, and whatever they were doing didn't leave many memories. I remember sessions with interrogators, only they were gentle, almost kind. They told me over and over the things I believed were wrong. They showed me evidence showing so many of the crimes I'd blamed them for were fabricated. They talked for so long, and eventually what they were saying started to make sense. It must've been months, I think, but slowly they let us out of the cells, both of us, and it was like a completely different world. All the harshness, all the cruelty, it was gone. We met Kosirim and it was the same for him. Neither of us mentioned the cells, because we knew if they heard us they'd send us back."

"We didn't believe it. Knew it was a set-up. But no matter what we did this version of reality persisted. No explanations, no answers. Anders was polite and distant, like she barely even knew us. You'd never know we'd been fighting each other for half a year. She introduced me to Colonel Royce when he was there for a tour and I almost fell apart. How was I supposed to know what to do? If I told him what she'd done, what if he knew? What if he told her to do it? You know what it does to you, knowing you've got no choice but to play along or be tortured? My thoughts were always so slow, I'm sure she was having us drugged." Harper said, barely able to control the stream of words. His grey eyes had glazed over, fixed on the window and the brick wall outside.

"One day we tried to run away. A rear exit was open so we climbed over the side fence," Jane said, having better succeeded in keeping her composure. "The man who caught us was one of the guards from the cells." She hesitated, expression shrouded by her long hair. "He was the one who'd abused me the most," she whispered, "and he said he knew the truth, that we weren't Alvernian at all, and he was going to do it all again."

"And then he died," Harper said, his voice as distant as his gaze. "Just like that, our saviour and our tormenter, Eliza Anders cut that creature's throat from behind and asked if we were alright. Alvernian soldiers everywhere, all pretending to be on our side, to have saved us from a deserter."

"And you believed them? How could it be so easy?" Kirk asked, his tone wavering between fascination and revulsion.

She shook her head. "No, we didn't. Sometimes she looked at us, almost smiling, as if daring us to try to fight her. The first time was so horrible, how could we ever risk going back to the cells?"

"It was what she wanted, we came to realise. It wasn't the torture, it wasn't even personal. She wanted to take her enemies and change them. Everything we were was taken away, but then it was _replaced_. She gave us all new lives, entirely the opposite of what we once were. I saw it all in her smile. When we were there in a dining hall full of aristocrats and officials, and she just grinned at me from across the room, like we both knew a secret they didn't. Like we had something _special_. That was when I knew," Harper said, entirely lost in his memories.

"We lived in the command centre, ate their food, befriended their soldiers, and wore their uniform. Eventually it became easier to stop resisting, to just let her win. When she asked me to become an officer under her I agreed, because what was the alternative? Everything we had was given to us by her, and everything she said was another test. She even protected us from the other officers. Months turned into years. She had us test her strategies in the field, always watched, always monitored, just waiting for a sign of rebellion. For a while I genuinely believed it: I was Alvernian, my name was Frank, the northern states needed to be punished and I was the one to do it."

"You could have killed her, surely? One opportunity, one mistake—"Kirk began to ask. They both cut him off at the same time.

"She wanted us to try, don't you understand? Once she invited us both to a private dinner, even gave us steak knives, left a loaded pistol only a few steps away from us. Such pleasant conversations we had, and I knew it was a game. Daring us to try it. Seeing if we remembered, if we knew. If we were grateful or not." Harper said, and the depths of his paranoia were slowly becoming apparent.

Gail understood. He could see Kirk did too. She'd ruined them both so thoroughly that they'd never have been able to even attempt to kill her. He'd lived a lie for years, believing it to keep himself sane, trusting that he was being watched, that she was infallible, and that the games hadn't ever stopped.

Harper stopped speaking for a moment, his brow furrowed and his hands twitching. "Eventually I wanted to believe it. Everything I had, everything I was, the life I was living. I had status, and power, and respect. The pain had finally stopped. A Major in the almighty Alvernian state military. I saw Jane and Kosirim less and less and my entire life was lived in Anders' shadow. Near the end the woman who'd had me tortured, who gave my only friend to her soldiers, was closer to me than anyone else I knew. We did everything together, she even started sharing her thoughts with me. How she looked at things, what she felt. Nothing like her public image. I'd never met anyone so intelligent, so insightful. For a while I really wanted to believe it could be true."

And now his entire body was shaking. "It was the skirmish on that island that did it, you know. When she gave three Borginians we captured to her men and had the rest executed. She hadn't changed at all, and I realised I hadn't either. It was nothing but an elaborate lie right from the start."

He trailed off, obscuring his face with one hand. This time Gail had heard enough. So many people, no matter how they portrayed themselves, were utterly ruined on the inside. His own internal torments seemed little more than trivial compared to the vast multitudes who'd suffered the way these two had, and all because of the apathy of men like him. It couldn't be allowed to happen again.

If he'd known what she'd done, what she'd go on to do only a few days later, what she had to be planning, he'd have killed both Anders and Royce that night under Ibis Island even if it had cost him his own life. Sacrificing a thing of such little worth to end this entire conflict would've been the right thing to do, the one thing he could've done with his life to improve the world.

"Tell me what we have to do," Gail said. He didn't care about their past now. That he had legitimate reason to capture the three of them. His decisions, his apathy, his failure: that was why Regina was being tortured.

"So you agree to help us, and so easily?" Kirk said, breathing an obvious sigh of relief.

"Don't mistake my intentions. My priority has always been to stop this from turning into a civil war. Now you're telling me this butcher has come back to the city without her armies? If we can rescue Regina, if we can kill Anders, the loss of his strategist might be enough to convince Colonel Royce to call off the revolt." Kirk was unlikeable, to put it lightly, but Gail had thought the same of Rick for years. Personal opinion was irrelevant when it came to anything as serious as this.

"You may be right, if it's not too late to be called off. Great man or not, he's a figurehead, and people aren't rising up just because he told them to," Kirk replied, looking at him with an unreadable look in his eyes. "After listening to that unfortunate tale I'm inclined to think we can use her sadism against her. I've studied Anders' successes; this will be difficult, no doubt, but she simply doesn't have the resources to hold off any significant counter-attack. I imagine she's relying on my notorious disinterest in other people."

"And why do you say that?"

Kirk shrugged evasively, but it was Harper who answered. His voice was still shaking. "They've been relying on Kesler's team for sabotage. Thing is, Kesler's the opposite of Anders. They despise each other, trust me. I had to listen to dear Eliza tell me what she was going to do to her more than once. Even asked me if I'd like to help. Kesler doesn't even know her commander's back in the city, so Anders can't use them as shock troops, and to do that she'd have to admit she's doing this for personal reasons anyway."

"A quick raid, then, is what you're suggesting? She'd kill Regina the minute she realised you'd involved me in this."

Kirk shook his head. "She likely would. I have something else in mind. I'll have the information for you tomorrow. That's when this is scheduled to start; expect them to be somewhere in the western district."

So that's how he wanted to do it? Withholding information no doubt, but there was little to do be about that. "Just tell me why you're doing this, Kirk. After what we did to you—"

"Indeed, you did return me to this miserable city and condemn me to imprisonment. And she was the one to save me from that fate, and the first in my entire life to try to understand me before condemning me again. What would you have me do instead? Run away this one last time? Abandon her to the fate that befell them so I can have a few more weeks in the gutter?" Kirk asked, gesturing at Harper and Jane.

Gail wanted to believe him. Needed to be believe him. Looking at the miserable woman in front of him and her scars, internal and external, knowing Regina would soon be in her position if they did nothing, he decided he had little choice but to believe the erratic researcher. To trust Regina's analysis of these people over his own so that he could finally hear her reasons in person.

"Alright. You've got your chance. All of you. I'll prepare a team and await your instructions. No contact by this time tomorrow and I'll go after her—and you—myself." Only then did it occur to him: the time for the transfer overlapped with General Hereson's presentation. Did Anders hope all the city's soldiers would be focused on the command centre during the handover? He assumed so.

"Thank you. For letting us explain, that is," Jane said, resting her head on the scarred palm of her left hand.

"I suppose I'll have to give you some credit too," Harper said after a long moment of hesitation. "As for what I said under that island, you weren't the one I should've directed that—"

Gail interrupted him. "No. You made a valid point. I ignored Regina for years, relying on her skills and giving nothing back. I abandoned her when she needed me most because I was too weak to admit I relied just as much on her. Why bother pretending otherwise? Still, she would've been offered a pardon. I assume you were unaware."

His eyes widened. "Never saw that coming. All I could think of were the cells. That I could stop it happening to someone else. Not a single thing about that day was done right, was it?"

Images of the sick woman living in his old SORT office filled Gail's mind and he shook his head. "It's our duty to take responsibility for what we've done."

"It's absurd, but I do believe that's why we're still here."

Gail chose to believe him. "This doesn't change the reality of our situation. I'm an Alvernian military officer, and the three of you are—"

"Are what?" asked Edward Kirk, his usual smugness returning at the first sign of an argument. "We're not criminals, are we? None of us have fought against the government, and they're both victims of the worst kind of war crimes that were sanctioned by your superiors. As for the stolen Stabilizer, would you rather I have it for private study or Royce has both the Ibis Island generator and the Stabilizer?" He shrugged, pushing back a stray lock of blonde hair. "I'd say we're not really of much concern to the military, wouldn't you agree? Remember, the woman you're so desperate to rescue is one of us, and she insisted that I stay away from military officials in the future."

"I'm not threatening you. If this works Regina can do as she likes. If that means going with you, we'll both have to deal with the consequences. Despite that, the only way to make this legitimate would require turning you in and I've decided not to do that. After this is done we're finished, Kirk. You're going to leave this conflict behind and start over. Whatever happens tomorrow this problem is the responsibility of the state military, not you. Agreed?"

"I don't intend to fight your war for you. The responsibility for ending this is yours now, so try not to make a mess of it. Once I take back what she's stolen from me, that'll be enough."

Is that so? Not a direct answer, he knew, but it would be enough. The man's intent was more important than his response.

As if by unconscious agreement all four of them decided to stand up. Gail couldn't help but think of the meeting as his first real experience with diplomacy. His new position, so close to the nation's leaders, was something he was determined to excel at, and perhaps it was a better way to handle disagreement than constant conflict.

It was hard to believe how dangerous the three of them were, seeing them in this setting. Harper was still staring out the window, barely even concentrating on the rest of them. Jane had pulled her sleeve down to conceal her scars but still looked shaken. Only Kirk looked more alive than he had been upon arriving. His back was straight, his clothes and hair clean, and his eyes bright with anticipation.

"I'll prepare a team tonight. Remember: no contact by the start of General Hereson's speech and I'll come and find you—and Anders—myself." He turned and left without another word.

The long walk up the central stairway to the western command centre, buffeted by bitter winds from the western sea, was when Gail finally made his decision.

He knew what would happen if he told Hereson. The western districts would likely be swept clean in a display of unwarranted force. The chance to capture someone so important would be deemed too valuable to ignore. The anti-government rhetoric being employed to such devastating effect by their enemies would be proven entirely true in one night. If what they'd said of Anders was true she would've anticipated this response, perhaps was even expecting it.

How could he justify revealing that information? Was it unfaithful not to tell General Hereson? Would it be another betrayal to tell the general knowing the consequences for Regina? Which was more important? It was too hard to say.

Knowing the right path was impossible, he'd come to realise. All that could ever be done was to make the best decision with the information available at the time. The inevitable consequences of those actions were to be embraced, not avoided; that was the only way he could ever hope to change. It was contentment, not perfection, which he needed to pursue.

_End note: Most of this story should now read quite differently the second time. Try the last part of c. 14 if you don't believe me._


	18. Chapter 18

"That could've gone wrong in so many ways. Are you really going to let him play with our lives like that?" a woman asked her friend, making a futile attempt to control her windswept hair. The cool afternoon sky had grown dark, promising heavy rain before the day was done.

"Relax. I'm not going to put you at risk like that. There were contingencies in place, I assure you," Edward Kirk said, managing to sound mildly reassuring. Most of it was self-satisfaction, in actuality. After such a success his inability to foresee the harsh weather before it arrived would've been humorous if not for the way the wind cut through to his bones. Harper's only reply was a stiff nod.

The way she scowled in response wasn't particularly reassuring. Edward wasn't concerned. His plan had worked flawlessly through two important steps, and neither of them were in a position to do any better.

As they left the exterior section of the deserted hotel it was hard not to be optimistic. What he'd heard from them had been nothing less than fascinating in an obscenely twisted sense. That this ostensibly emotionless officer had taken these people and warped their identities and ideals so thoroughly, had them so terrified and confused that they'd accepted the change, was more than he'd ever expected. No, he considered, it was worse than that: she'd made them actively choose to be the person she wanted them to be every day for years on end. How he'd have loved to know how it worked.

Of course, he considered as they turned the street corner, a few light drops of rain beginning to fall, it hadn't actually worked. No matter how she'd treated the man at the end, as a friend or lover or confidant or whatever he'd implied their relationship had become, the depravity of what she'd had done to them was impossible to wash away. It was not meaningful change, certainly not permanent change.

It appealed to his scientific instincts, though to force such a process on anyone would breach every ethical standard ever imagined. Her motive was what he desired to know most of all. What was the point? His own motivations were difficult enough to define. Transient, always changing, often obvious lies. It was a shame, he realised, that Anders was simply too dangerous to consider leaving alive without subjecting her to the very thing they despised her for doing. His questions were destined to remain unanswered. That was disappointing, and he wasn't sure how to interpret that feeling.

"You've considered that he might just arrest us after it's done, right?" Harper muttered, not looking at either of them. His mental condition had been declining rapidly ever since he'd stolen the Stabilizer from Ibis Island. Even Jane, as disturbing as her past had been, was handling the situation without an internal collapse.

"I have. It's unlikely. That he listened and ultimately agreed to help indicates he's serious; this man is as blunt and transparent as they come. Furthermore, he won't risk derailing Hereson's big event by making an enormous scene halfway through. Politically that would be an absolute disaster. We're doing this for his friend's sake and helping him with his ultimate goal: eliminating a far more dangerous threat in the process," Edward said, explaining his reasoning with a voice he'd developed when lecturing first became one of his responsibilities.

The rain was only growing heavier. "You just said you weren't going to put us at risk based on some stupid guess," Jane pointed out, and it was difficult not think of his research teams and how stubborn they'd been. People like explanations, there was no denying that.

Refusing to accommodate their desires had resulted in such poor relationships with the other researchers that they'd ultimately wanted to poison him. Repeating the same with these people would result in them leaving if he was fortunate or simply killing him if he wasn't.

"It's not a risk. Not if he's played his part properly," Kirk said, waving at Harper. Autumn wasn't supposed to be so cold, he reflected bitterly. Three years in such a warm climate had changed even more than he'd realised.

Harper's grimace reminded him that his choice of words, in light of their history, was abysmal. Playing a part indeed. Handling these matters diplomatically was harder than it looked. He'd always refused to do a single thing without understanding the reason for it, a luxury rarely extended to others. It was an interesting challenge, if nothing else, and something he'd agreed—implicitly or otherwise—to attempt. Self-change was painful, undoubtedly, but it couldn't be any worse than Anders' method.

They returned to their last refuge on foot, a small warehouse concealed in the residential district. Harper's team had used it to store weapons and vehicles for some time, and it was reasonably well-equipped in other ways.

No sooner had the heavy door closed behind them than he breathed an involuntary sigh of relief. Harper left them both immediately, retreating to a back room and locking the door behind him.

That was troubling. For a moment all they could do was stare at the door, trying to imagine which one of the man's many horrendous problems could have resulted in this change and failing to get anywhere. Would Regina have had any more luck?

"Just leave him alone for a while," Jane said, glancing over at him. "He'll still go through with the plan, but that was the first time he's ever spoken about what she did to us since it happened. He lived with her for years, and he's never told me what that was like. Now it's all back to how it was back in the north." She began pulling off her coat and hesitated, still staring at him.

This was too much eye-contact, really. Unless… but that would be absurd. "You don't have to hide your scars. Not from me, anyway," he finally said, hoping his interpretation wasn't horribly wrong. He'd abused her soft voice and tragic past and gentle nature as part of his ploy to convince Gail to help them. Was that so wrong? She'd known what he was doing, after all, even telling him why it was so likely to work.

Apparently not. She smiled, obviously grateful for his words, and threw the coat on their sole piece of comfortable furniture, a tattered old couch, before sitting there herself. Edward's eyes were drawn to her arm. Imagining the damage that would've resulted in such heavy scarring was only natural for a man like him. If Regina survived this she would bear the same burden, he knew. A calculated message in more ways than one.

He felt the weight of the phone in his pocket. Soon it would be time to arrange the meeting. The longer he could delay it the less time she'd have to prepare, he told himself. Whether that was the real reason for the delay was something he refused to consider.

"This could go badly for us in so many ways," he murmured, brushing his arm in an unconscious imitation of her.

"We can't run," he continued, speaking to himself but desiring for her to listen. "She'll never let us escape, not the woman you described. And once they take control, which they surely will, there won't be anywhere to hide."

"It's not very hopeful, is it?" she replied, staring at him as if she'd never seen him before. "It's a trap, you know. This meeting. And not the way you think it is. Something's really wrong and I just don't know what it is this time." The fingers on her left hand began to twitch.

"I know. It's what I'd have done in her place. Hide what I really want under more than one layer of deception. It's why I think we'll be fine, you know."

Her eyes widened and her fingers relaxed for a moment. "I think you lost me there."

Edward took the seat next to her with a light smile he hoped was reassuring. "You said it yourself. We're supposed to be doing a trade, the two of you for Regina. Nobody believes that's the real objective. But nobody with her abilities would stop there: why would she choose this plan if she wanted to capture us? We saw through it instantly."

"I don't think you realise just how personal this is, even if you did make a good point. She could easily have guessed you'd think that."

"I suppose we'll just have to ask her ourselves, won't we?"

A slow nod was the only response. He'd hinted at his true feelings and she'd agreed. None of it made any sense to him. More than that, the realisation that if Anders' goal was to capture them she'd never had used this plan was the basis of his entire strategy. Too risky, too transparent. If they were fortunate it was all a diversion, but to what end?

"When that officer asked you why you were doing this did you tell him the truth?"

He stared at her after that, trying to understand how serious she was. A firmly set jaw, direct eye contact, and silence were his answers.

"I'm not sure." He looked up at the ceiling and exhaled. "I was imprisoned like you. Colonel Royce, an enemy if I've ever had one, had a choice: he allowed Regina to interrogate me instead of, well, you can guess. Knowing now what she'd likely have done is surreal. Perhaps he knows too. To break me, to turn me into the opposite of what I am? I don't even know who I am," Edward said with a short laugh. "I'd have killed myself, of course. That's what I like to think. Perhaps I'd have submitted. I never want to find out."

"What did she do?" Jane asked, a hint of nervousness returning to her voice. "Regina, I mean. When she interrogated you."

This time he couldn't help but find it terribly amusing. After knowing their painful past how could he not laugh at his own memories?

"She confronted me in a private cell. And instead of torture, or interrogation, or even harsh words, she sat there and spoke to me like I was anything but a filthy, deranged prisoner soon to be forced into indentured servitude."

"I insulted her, I questioned her beliefs, I even asked her to help me fight the people who'd done this to me. And she listened to every word without judgement. Do you know how precious that is? To finally have someone listen? Nobody in my life ever bothered to attempt it and this military tool, the one who put me there to begin with, is the first to start? It's too absurd not to appreciate."

"Did it help? Having someone like that?" She was watching curiously, her scarred hand wrapped around her hair.

"I suspect it did. The man I was this time last year wouldn't have made it this far. What I was doing didn't work, so why not try something else? That was my rationale. We both agreed to it."

"You know, Harper might have been wrong about you. That was kind of cute. You're not arrogant at all, just someone who's in a lot of pain and doesn't know how to fix it." Her soft voice, soothing and understanding with a hint of amusement, managed to be both infuriating and reassuring all at once.

_When he was with her?_ He didn't voice his thoughts. Cute was certainly not the adjective he'd have chosen. "I'll have to think about that. I'll also have to check our preparations again," he said, standing up and stretching. Despite the stress he'd rarely felt more alive.

The next hour was spent entirely alone, something that came as a relief after so many agonising discussions. A terrible thing about leadership, he was quickly coming to learn, was the inability to simply hide yourself away. A luxury Harper had taken the opportunity to enjoy. Unless he'd killed himself while locked in that old office, of course. It didn't seem likely, so he put the thought out of his mind.

His own quarters, a section partitioned off by strategically placed storage containers, smelled faintly of rust and mildew. The cold was worse inside than out and the high winds rattled the metal shutters incessantly. The Stabilizer was concealed under the floor, though he'd barely had time to give it any thought. It still managed to feel more comfortable than anywhere else he'd lived for many years.

Even sitting there alone on a dusty crate, eyes closed, head resting on a concrete wall, his conditions, poor as they were, only validated his choices. Self-direction was worth the price.

In a single moment his deep sense of relaxation, his growing satisfaction, were torn away and replaced by a sinking pit in his chest. The phone in his pocket began vibrating incessantly and before he could justify ignoring the summons he held it to his ear. The luxury of the first move was hers.

"Hello, Edward. You've taken so long that I was getting worried." The sound of her voice, calm and controlled with even a hint of feigned concern, was enough to make his heart race. If she was intimidating before then how was he supposed to respond now?

"Who are you?" The first thought to enter his mind was a poor choice.

"You're going to play that game? We both know you had them tell you every last thing they knew about me." She paused for a second and he heard her inhale sharply. "No, I understand. I'll indulge you. My name is Eliza. I'm a lieutenant colonel in the Alvernian military. I don't care for the value of people's lives, and that includes my own. It also includes the poor woman you've left in my care. Did you appreciate my message?"

He hadn't intended to play that game at all. Neither had she; she'd twisted her interpretation of his words into her own game. If he played along he'd reveal too much, but if he stayed silent he'd have lost entirely. How had Harper's old group ever thought they'd had a chance fighting her?

Attempt an offensive and hope for the best, he thought. "I always thought Royce was the perfect embodiment of a corrupt, self-serving official. All that time following him with your stoic face and quiet ambition. The perfect little officer, weren't you? Does he know what you're really like?"

"I can't tolerate boring people. Still, a better question would be do I know what _he_ is really like. All this feigned aggression and contempt is going to make_ you_ sound boring, Edward. We both know you only care when it affects you. Oh but it does, doesn't it? I'm going to ask you the same question, and remember what I said I'd do if you lied to me. Who are you?"

Offensive smashed effortlessly. This was a serious problem: an open ended question with a punishment if he lied. How she'd interpret a lie he couldn't say.

"I'll indulge you. My name is Edward. I'm a…"

"Yes? You're a what?" He heard the amusement in her voice and swore to himself. He'd played right into her hands. Being outwitted was for lesser men, surely, but here he was stumbling over his own words.

He wasn't a researcher now. He had no title to present. And yet it was true: he felt more alive for his lack of a defined place in the world. "I'm finally starting to feel alive," he ultimately said.

"Good answer. I admit, if you'd bored me with that response I'd have considered ending our game early. You're more interesting than you look." Easy to say that through a phone. But there was something wrong, a hint of an invitation even.

"Hold on, _Eliza_. You thought I'd be boring? You simply said you were a lieutenant colonel. A lazy answer if I've ever heard one."

"Not only interesting but clever. This should be entertaining. I was worried about you, but Dmitri just didn't know how to play with you. He's not like us. A more fitting response would be to say I've never felt alive and still don't. If your answer was honest I have cause to envy you."

"Tell me what you really want," he asked, opting to avoid a philosophical discussion. The traps she'd set in that realm of debate would be far too hard to avoid.

"I want to reunite you with someone you once hated and now admire. I have no personal hatred for either of you, you know. Hatred is a strong emotion, something that needs to be nurtured. I rarely have the energy to indulge in something so passionate."

How could she expect him to believe that, even for a moment? "What you did to her arm. Tell me how you could do that to someone you don't even despise."

"I didn't expect I'd have to explain this to you," she replied, a hint of irritation creeping into her otherwise calm tone. "I know they told you. I know you wouldn't come unless they told you. I know the three of you have surprisingly little interest in your own well-being, a fact exacerbated by the reality that you'd die if you tried to run. I gave you the motivation you needed to follow through with the plan. Once you've retrieved her I expect your relationship will even be stronger for it. Would you like to thank me?"

That was cunning. Goading him into complying and tainting the positive outcome with her implications. "You lied to me. You don't care about her or me, therefore you don't want to reunite us and you're doing this for your own selfish ends."

"Good observation. I suppose you could cut off Harper's finger to punish me."

"Another lie. Implying that would in any way punish you. You're slipping up already, Eliza."

"Slipping up? If you think any of this is unintentional I'm afraid I misjudged you. I'd like him back in one piece. We were getting along so well and then he had a fit and ran away. How long did it take you to find someone interesting enough to play enough? More importantly: what made her interesting enough to risk so much?"

Edward hesitated, knowing the answer she wanted, knowing the truth. Lying wasn't an option. "She listened without condescension and admitted that her own world view could be wrong, ultimately forcing me to admit the same. Not so different from you, I've come to think, only she chose listening and not the knife."

For a moment she said nothing. "Did it work?"

"Who knows? It had promise. Your own experiment was a miserable failure, as I can attest to personally after seeing the broken, tortured people you created. Someone so capable, so intelligent, and that was the best you could do? Sadism or stupidity, which is it?"

"I admire your honesty. Sadism is too broad a word. Pain is interesting under certain circumstances, but my standards for success and yours may differ. It worked for a time whether he admits it or not. An interesting subject, something you would find fascinating, I'm sure. Nevertheless, I'm afraid for the moment we're supposed to be enemies and ought to play our parts. I assume you'd like to meet at the warehouse tomorrow afternoon?"

Another complete shift in tone, both in the conversation and her voice. Cooperate and get this finished before something goes wrong, that was his main priority. That she'd guessed his preferred time was an ominous sign. "Yes."

"So you agree? We'll meet at the portside warehouse and exchange Ms Regina for Harper and his woman?"

"Tomorrow. We'll use General Hereson's speech as the signal to approach."

"I see. Goodbye, Edward. Keep the phone. I'd like to speak to you again. I know you'd like to speak to me again. Don't worry. I won't make you say it."

Edward sat there for several minutes entranced by the conversation he'd just been forced to have. His chest was tight, heart racing, and his brow soaked in sweat. Deciphering the meaning of anything she'd said was next to impossible. The questions, the answers he'd given, her own responses. He'd been outmanoeuvred at every turn. This sensation, one of defeat, of being outwitted, was entirely new.

What had they told him? She wanted to understand her enemies? The answers he'd given would have helped significantly in that respect. That was something that worked both ways; she'd given him just as much insight into her own personality. Never felt alive? What did she mean by that? It was too much of a distraction at too critical a time. None of this made any sense.

Suddenly exhausted, he left the shelter of his quarters once more. Jane was asleep on the couch, sure to wake with a stiff neck, but he heard slow steps from behind.

"I knew she'd force you to make a decision. Tomorrow afternoon is fine," Harper said, the words emerging slowly without a trace of his usual vitality. Perhaps, he thought, this was the man as he actually was. Solitary, contemplative, irritable? It didn't look like an act.

"Take this. I recorded our conversation. You know who to send it to," he replied, handing Harper the phone. His only response was an attempted smile and a nod.

"Could you tell me something?" Edward said, adopting the same morose tone. It would only insult them both to pretend he didn't understand this was difficult. "I told her I was finally beginning to feel alive. She said she envied me. What does that mean?"

"How do you think it feels to be capable of anything and interested in nothing? You might just have found what we… what she's never had."

Where was the contempt? "You sound like you sympathise with her."

His expression hardened. "I doubt you could understand, Kirk. Call me when we're ready to move out." With that abrupt end he returned to the side office, locking the door yet again.

So that was the way of it? It was callous, Kirk knew, but he revised his assessment of the man in several ways. Emotionally he would be unreliable. Anders' control over him wouldn't be shaken so easily, regardless of its cause. He was likely at risk of suicide after all.

Of course, he considered as he looked over their list of contacts one last time, his interpersonal assessments weren't the most reliable. He still found it difficult to believe Harper, useful and capable as he was, could ever be trusted. Jane was the dependable one.

The night was a restless one. Cool winds and light showers intensified, pummelling them with bitterly cold gusts for hours on end. It was one of the coldest nights he'd endured in his life, the poorly insulated warehouse floor proving itself a miserable place to live. Racing thoughts and paranoia delivered a finishing blow to his chances of getting a decent night's rest.

Admitting defeat at five in the morning, a time he felt more natural to begin sleeping than to stop, he threw the makeshift bedding to one side and found something suitably impressive to wear from the stores Harper's men had left. Black jackets, grey jackets, black and grey everything. He saw no reason to complain.

Harper's door was locked as ever, though there were no indications he'd killed himself, but Jane was staring out the open door at the rain storm, her bare arms exposed to the harsh wind.

"Am I imagining things, or are you immune to the cold?"

A slow glance over her shoulder proved she wasn't surprised to see him awake. "Where we come from it gets cold enough that too much exposure will kill you. This is mild." She looked away and ran a hand over her left arm.

That should've been obvious. "You're ready for your part in this, I presume?"

Jane nodded, eyes fixed on the running water outside, and he joined her for a moment. Regina was more right than she knew. This woman, nothing but a faceless soldier to him initially, was just as complex as they were. She had a history, and thoughts, and desires, and all of that would need to be taken into account.

"It's an odd plan, you know. I wouldn't have agreed if I didn't think it could work, I guess. It's a shame Kosirim's not here. He was always better at this than me."

"You can't hesitate for even a moment. Remember your own analysis: we still don't know what she actually wants from this. I'd prefer if we didn't have to find out."

Another slow nod in response and they both remained there, focused on their own thoughts, until the first signs of light appeared in the eastern sky and illuminated the heavy cloud cover.

The morning passed in a blur. None of them were interested in speaking. Edward's mind was fixed on the day ahead, running over every possible contingency, every idea. Jane stared at the grey sky for hours, and he came to realise she didn't expect to return alive. Harper remained sealed away until the last hour, emerging only minutes before they were scheduled to leave.

When the time came they left without another word. All the required information had been sent to their enlisted allies the moment before leaving. Gail would have no reason to doubt his sincerity, at least for the moment. His assessment of the man had been correct, at least. He was stubborn, but not one for self-delusion.

Their new assistants had been sent to scout the location the night before. Their report indicated it was simply a derelict warehouse in an economically ruined area, almost uninhabited, though the port further to the north was still in use. No signs of activity, no significant markings or signs at the site. Motion sensors had been placed in every significant site surrounding the building. No ambushes would be possible from there, he was sure of that much.

They approached separately. By the time they reached the district containing the warehouse, one built on a raised platform directly adjacent to the sea, Edward's watch indicated there were ten minutes left before the long awaited presentation started. No wonder Gail had agreed to assist them. If Hereson could stall the civilian revolts and they could kill Anders this entire conflict would be over before it ever had a chance to begin in full.

Harper was to remain out of sight until he received further instructions. Kirk's choice of companion was Jane. Less valuable a target, more emotionally stable, and quite capable with a submachine gun. They waited in the shadow of an industrial chimney until approached by four masked and armoured soldiers in government uniform. The tallest of the three identified himself as Gail. The sight of the soldiers was enough to make her shudder, they all noticed.

"I never would've believed this, Kirk, but here we are. I've brought a team of eight. We've identified your entire group. Keep that in mind if you try to double cross us," Gail said, his voice muffled by his facemask. His companions remained silent, watching both entrances to the area with their rifles.

"Good. We'll be approaching first. This is undoubtedly a trap. Even so, you understand as well as I do that she doesn't want us dead. There's a significant possibility Anders won't be here in person. I wouldn't be if I were her."

"Half my team is offshore. They'll be on the coastal side two minutes after I give the command."

"Only give the command if we're directly assaulted. No matter who appears or how many of them there are, wait until the trap is revealed. This will _not_ work if you try to use brute force, you understand? The only objectives are finding Regina and disposing of Anders, as you agreed." If he changed his mind now it was all ruined. Surely he wouldn't. Kirk was relying on the need to restrain the state military during Hereson's address being enough to subdue Gail from any rash moves.

"Stop wasting time, Kirk. We'll do this your way until the moment you lose control. If you're half as talented as you think you are that won't be necessary," Gail replied, dismissing him with a brief nod and turning back to his men. The message was clear enough: their attempt had the chance to succeed. If it didn't… well, nothing of value would've been lost.

Taking a deep breath and considering one last time the possibility of abandoning this absurd scheme and fleeing, Kirk watched Gail walk away, checked the pre-programmed responses he'd built into his wrist communicator, and took a fleeting look at Jane. She smiled nervously and nodded; that was enough for him. One of them, at least, would do as she'd promised.

The solitary walk down the cracked and broken road leading to the wrought iron gates before the warehouse was undoubtedly the most unnerving experience of his life. He'd chosen to be there. That thought was enough to keep him going as each step through the waterlogged streets grew heavier.

Both gates stood open. The paved terrace within looked to have been unused for some years. Weeds grew from the cracked stones and a thin layer of mud and debris covered most of the fenced-in area. Looking at the larger buildings on each side in his peripheral vision, it was clear that the only place left for them to hide was the warehouse itself.

Reaching for the communicator concealed under the sleeve of his jacket, Kirk lightly pressed the first in a series of keys on its side, signalling Harper to approach. This would lure them out, surely.

Harper approached with a scowl on his unshaven face, hands in his pockets and head held high. And yet there was no response. No interception, no activity, not even a call on the phone he'd kept at Anders' request.

Edward looked at him for a moment when the man stopped at his side. He contacted the men he'd left on the perimeter and they confirmed no activity. His heart was pounding in his chest, ears attuned to the slightest change in sound, and yet there was nothing.

He contacted Gail. "No signs of activity even with the bait in place. Any action on your end?"

"Negative. Should we approach?" The change in his personality during an assignment was astonishing.

"No. Hold for now. When we enter the building wait two minutes and follow." Not just yet. His presence would ruin everything.

Their eyes were drawn to a red flash on his wrist. Harper glanced at him and then the gate, his right hand tightening on something in his jacket pocket. Edward saw no reason for concern.

Neither of them were surprised at what happened next, though the same couldn't be said for any other member of their makeshift task force.

"You've surprised me a second time, Harper." a woman's voice called from the gate. Her harsh tone and lack of restraint, as well as her imposing figure, marked out their second guest: Andrea Kesler.

She approached them with six soldiers behind, all of them armed and wearing a dull green paramilitary uniform. If Gail was half the professional he said he was he'd remain behind until given the signal.

"We have something to show you. I suspect you'll have some questions for your superiors once this is finished," Edward said as they stopped in front of them.

Harper's assessment of the situation had been correct. Kesler's group hadn't been informed that Anders had returned to the city; indeed, she hadn't been told that he was now an enemy of their faction entirely. The idea of a hostage handover under such circumstances was quite new to her. This provided an opportunity too valuable not to exploit.

"You'd already shown enough proof to interest me. A lieutenant colonel returned to the city alone just to hunt the three of you down? I wouldn't have believed it, but that was her voice and those were definitely things she'd have said. Even so, how could someone in her position possibly justify abandoning their responsibilities to hunt down her…"

Kesler paused with an odd look at Harper. "I never knew what to consider the two of you. None of us did. Can someone like Eliza have friends? Colonel Royce may have accepted her idiosyncrasies, including you, but the same wasn't true for many of us. Either way, I'm going to have to report this_. If_ what you say is true, that is, and if it's not you'll find things much less pleasant."

Harper grimaced, stiffening the moment their relationship was questioned. Interested as he was in the answer, Edward decided to save him. They couldn't afford an argument.

"Then let's find out, shall we?" He held a finger over the signal to alert Gail.

When the heavy door shut behind them his uncertainty was finally left behind. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom it was difficult to remain still or silent. Everything had been arranged for their arrival, as if it were the opening scene of a grotesque play and they were the guests of honour. He saw Kesler raise her rifle; heard Harper take a step back and gave no attention to either.

The afternoon light entered through a series of industrial windows, just harsh enough to draw their attention to a wooden chair in the centre of the otherwise empty concrete floor. A slumped figure sat in the chair, one arm bound to a chain hanging from the ceiling; legs bound together. Under the chair the concrete was stained a dull brown.

"Spread out," Kesler ordered. Her fighters divided into groups of two and began checking the room, clearing the way for their approach. The figure in the chair shifted when she spoke, though only barely.

"Are you ready for this?" Harper asked, looking across at him with a look of absolute weariness. He'd seen it all before. He told Kesler about Gail's approach, Edward heard, though the exact words faded and became indistinct.

Kesler gripped his shoulder and said something, but he drew back in anger and stepped forward into the light, approaching the chair with his fist clenched at his side. She was here for one reason and this was overstepping her place.

He'd succeeded. They were all here, and so was she. Gail was convinced; surely the man was entering the door even then. Kesler was sure to behave as he'd anticipated. Harper and Jane had played their parts perfectly.

He'd failed. The image he'd seen, the scars on Jane's arm: neither compared to the reality of seeing such deliberate and intricate torture. Her ruined arm was hanging from a heavy iron chain attached to the ceiling, the bandages scattered on the floor underneath. Her left leg was stiff and heavily wrapped in cloth. The chair and the floor under it were stained with coagulated blood.

All of that he'd known and expected. Regina's right hand was almost unidentifiable; once pale skin painted crimson, her fingers hanging limply under the chair. All but one of them. Her right index finger had been sliced off at the base, as promised.

A small note had been placed on her chest with a key attached. He reached up on instinct; the key fit the chain's lock, releasing Regina's arm instantly. _Well played, Edward, but you_ _should've done it without lying. The lack of a trigger finger should help with her desire not to be a mindless soldier, don't you think? You made it happen. _He crumpled the note in his fist and dropped it in the pool of drying blood below.

Harper and Jane were attempting to stop Gail and Kesler's soldiers from gunning each other down, he understood on some level. Something had happened outside. This was a critical moment if his plan was to work, and yet he wasn't moving.

Regina looked up, leaning back in the chair with a wince showing more pain indicating that even slight movements were challenging in her condition. Her unfocused eyes fixed themselves on him with difficulty. "You actually came back?" she whispered, her voice so hoarse he could barely make out the words. Her head turned, and it was clear that every movement was agonising. "And he's here too?"

One of the masked soldiers had been watching from the side, and Edward realised even the appearance of one of Gail's main targets had been forgotten after he saw what had been done to her. He'd never even known what they were to one another. Gail approached, cut her restraints, and pulled the mask off his face; for the first time his stoic expression had broken, revealing a man consumed by self-loathing and regret. He'd seen it too often to mistake it for anything but what it was.

Regina burst into laughter at the sight of them both. It was harsh, not humorous in the least, the laugh of someone filled with despair and confronted by a sight too absurd for words. "Of all the things I never expected to see, it would be even one of you coming back for me. All of you together… how could that be possible, it must be another game, I know how this works by now," she murmured, and both men glanced at each other despite themselves.

Regina looked up, her eyes focusing on the surroundings at last. "I appreciate it more than you could know, but if you're here… if all of you are here, she's won."

_She's won._ It didn't come as a surprise. She'd won, but he hadn't failed. It would have to be enough.

"Tell me what this means, Kirk. For you to be here, you must know," whispered a harsh voice in his ear. Kesler. This would have to be done, and yet he found it difficult to move.

"It means you've been fighting for someone who thinks this is how you win a war, Kesler," Gail said, the contempt in his words far more disquieting than anything he'd ever heard from the man. Kirk's eyes were fixed on the woman in the chair, trying to understand what he supposed to take from this vile scene, what the message was.

"You don't fight your enemies, you don't negotiate with them: you brutalise them, you torture them, and you have them mutilated. You use that to lure their allies in and still you don't show yourself. Is that who you are? Is that how you're going to build your new society?" Gail's contempt changed, transforming into cold anger. His fist was curled around his rifle, hands both shaking erratically.

Kesler met Gail's piercing stare wordlessly. For the first time she looked uncertain. Her gaze shifted, first evaluating Regina in her chair, Harper hiding in the shadows by the wall, and ultimately turning back to Kirk. "I don't understand her motives. This is beyond my authority, you understand? I have to report this to the Colonel." All six of her soldiers were watching, the clear confusion in their leader's words visibly bothering each of them.

"After all this, I think I finally believe it," he murmured to himself, dismissing their concerns as unimportant without another thought. "Was that her intent? To force me to admit to what I am without the luxury of self-deception?"

A weak laugh, more of a pained cough in actuality, broke his spell at last. "Sorry to disappoint you, Kirk, but you're showing your arrogant side again." Regina looked back up, her face twisted into a strained smile. "She just wanted to get you all out the way. It's too late to do anything about it now, but I'm glad you're here. I didn't think you'd-" The end was deliberately left off, but it wasn't hard to imagine. He barely understood it either.

That could wait. "Can you move?"

She shook her head. "She stuck a knife through my thigh. Can't walk."

He winced involuntarily. That explained her stiff leg. Anders had thought this through; even if she'd broken the restraints she'd have been forced to crawl away.

Gail returned with one of his men. The medic set to work immediately, injecting what Kirk assumed were painkillers.

"How can you be here, Gail?" Regina asked, struggling to keep her head up. "After what we—"

Gail didn't let her finish. "It was my responsibility to prevent this. The burden of blame for what you had to do, and for this, is as much mine as yours. We've made it through worse than this, and we'll both keep going."

Another weak smile. "You know, I don't think we have."

They fell silent as the medic made a futile attempt to treat her severe injuries. Gail's eyes were fixed on Regina, his attention unwavering.

It was extraordinarily difficult to admit, but watching the older man stand at his side it was hard to despise him. They'd never be friends, likely never even allies, but he was no more an unthinking tool than Regina was. Perhaps respect was enough. Looking around, he realised the same was true of all of them.

Jane with her unthinkably tragic past was still here with them after all that she'd endured. Harper was leaning against the rear wall, one hand covering his face, the other sprawled at his side. He'd thrown his entire life away to try and reclaim his own identity, to fight back against the woman he'd both despised and admired for years, who'd stolen his life and given him a new one in its place. Even Kesler and her men were standing to one side, assisting as best they could.

He looked at Gail. "We're not through yet. Keep that in mind."

The older man grimaced and folded his arms. "I'm counting on it. Someone's going to pay for this." He remained silent for a moment, sighed, and turned back. "Look, whatever your reasons are, your plan was a good one. Even bringing _her_ here," Gail said, nodding in Kesler's direction.

"Do you know why I did it?"

"I'm not half as stupid as you want to think I am, Kirk. She and Anders have always hated each other. Bringing her here is going to cause one hell of an internal dispute in their ranks. It's a smart move."

Was that a compliment? From _him_? "I'm glad you approve."

"Is this a drug-induced hallucination, or did that actually happen?" Regina asked, her voice slightly slurred.

"I went to a lot of effort to make that happen," he objected, eliciting a snort from Gail.

"Yeah, well, it's a better sight than anything I've seen for a while," Regina said, wincing as the medic worked on her arm. Her voice was even more incoherent. "Shame Anders told me it was coming first. Right before she hacked my finger off." Now it was obvious. She was trying to push the pain, mental more than physical, to the back of her mind, to remain unaffected. It was almost working, but he didn't believe a word of it.

"She did that because of me. I told her—"

"Forget it, Kirk," said Harper's weary voice from behind. He, Jane, and even Kesler had all approached the centre of the warehouse. "Don't let yourself think there was something you could have done differently. It doesn't work that way with her."

"Hey, Harper. Coming here was really stupid," Regina murmured, looking at each on them in turn. The anaesthetic was beginning to take its effect. "Anders wouldn't shut up about you. Even if she really just wanted you all here while she shot up some speech, she said you two had some stuff to work out. Really weird stuff, to be honest…" She continued speaking, but in such an unclear and inaudible tone that the words were indistinguishable.

Gail's entire body stiffened so noticeably that they all looked at him. "Regina, can you repeat that? Why did she bring us all here? This is important: what was the actual plan?"

Regina was beyond a proper response or even hearing his words. He turned to Kesler and grabbed her shoulder, eliciting shouts of alarm and raised rifles from the soldiers on both sides. "Do you know?"

Kesler pushed him back without difficulty and raised a hand to call off her men. "What do you think, idiot? The only presentation is the one at western command, and I was told to stay well clear of that by Colonel Royce himself. You think we have the manpower to stage an attack _there_? No wonder you couldn't ever catch me."

The sound of a phone ringing in the abandoned, filthy entrance attracted their attention immediately, silencing the entire room.

The timing was nothing short of unnerving. It was one of those coincidences that is simply too coincidental to accept for what it is. The answer was obvious: the warehouse had been monitored the entire time. How could it have ever been otherwise?

Resigned to his fate, Kirk accepted the burden of answering. None of them objected, not even Gail in his panic or Kesler, a cold fury growing in her eyes with each new revelation.

The old reception desk's decrepit phone was receiving one final call. "Hello, Edward," a far too cheerful voice said as he answered.

How to handle this, he wondered? Spite, anger, condemnation: these would be clear mistakes. It was beginning to seem like any move at all would be a mistake.

"You have more self-restraint than I would've imagined," he began. "Gathering up all your enemies and leaving us alive? How hard would it have been to bomb the warehouse?"

"The first thing you say once the hostage is returned is a lie and you wonder why I had to take such drastic measures to keep you honest? You knew I didn't want to kill any of you. Well, Gail and Andrea are exceptions. I never liked either of them, and neither do you," said the soft voice of Eliza Anders, losing its feigned cheerfulness in an instant.

"Is that so? What do you want this time? To gloat? You've mutilated someone who never did a thing to harm you all to lure us into a trap you can't be bothered springing. Congratulations."

"How sad. None of you have figured it out yet and my messenger's asleep. No, that's not true. Harper would've guessed, but he's not going to want to tell you." A slight pause. "He agrees with me and the internal conflict hurts far more than Regina's missing finger ever will," Anders said in a whisper.

No more derailments. "I don't care. Tell me now or don't. Does it even matter?"

"It was so obvious, I thought. I gave you a few choices. You chose to risk yourself to save someone else. You didn't run. You didn't attempt to recapture your precious generator. Do you still care about that dull research? You could've asked to join me, if you'd liked; I would've let you. Both of you. So many choices, so many plans."

"Which of them was the right choice?" Edward asked, feeling his heart rate rise involuntarily.

Eliza Anders laughed at him. "Who cares? The choice you made was fine, believe me. The point was that you'd all be so busy debating plans and picturing me carving Ms Regina's arm apart that you wouldn't have the time to consider I might just want you, and Harper, and Gail, and even Andrea out of the picture for a few days."

With each word a deep sense of dread grew deeper. A drop of sweat ran down his chest despite the cold air and his hand tightened around the receiver.

"Why?" It was all he could bring himself to say.

"For once I'm going be myself. I can do that with you, can't I? You will understand, and if you don't I'll make you understand. Anton sent me here to observe. To wait until that scum Hereson finishes bribing the populace into complacency. We were alone, and he looked at me with those pale eyes as if he had all the answers_. 'Eliza, I need you, Eliza you're the only one I trust, the only one capable enough to do this.'_"

Gail was watching, he realised. He alone had come to observe.

"I realised something. _He was using me_. He plans to wait because he lied to me from the beginning. Reform or revolution, Edward? I understand him now. He and Hereson are alike and I'm going to take everything from them both. I'll force him to admit it and I'll break him." Every trace of restraint had left Anders' voice, her words coming quickly in a soft tone distinguished by its combination of exhilaration and indignation.

"I don't understand your meaning. Why is that a betrayal?"

"He _wants_ to negotiate. All this power, all the killing he's had me do for him, all of it to force them to make concessions. He's pathetic. I'll leave him with no choice but to do as he said he would, and don't think I'm the only one."

Don't let yourself question her motives now, he tried to remember, just focus on the plan. "To do that you'd have to disrupt the presentation, but in such a way that—"

She was too impatient to wait. "Take a look at the western command centre. Not much longer and they'll all understand. Tell Harper I'm still going to do it, would you? We'll speak again soon, Edward."

He lowered the receiver and grimaced involuntarily. This was beyond his understanding. Mutilating Regina to distract her friends and allies from an attack on western command? But if Royce explicitly didn't want her to intervene? Tell him she was going to do what?

"Well?" Gail was only a few steps behind, watching with clear impatience.

"All of this was a distraction. You, me, Harper… even Kesler. She wanted us out of the way while she attacked Hereson's presentation," Edward replied in a murmur, his eyes fixed on the silent phone. "She was right. Seeing the brutality, hearing what she did to them. I never even considered it was just a diversion. How pathetic are we?"

He looked back but Gail was gone. Raised voices could be heard from the warehouse floor. Peering inside, Gail and his team were gathering, evidently having decided Kesler was of little importance in the face of a threat to the command centre.

"Kirk, get over here," the older man said, his loud voice echoing across the entire warehouse. Regina was unconscious, he saw while approaching, but her wounds had been treated with as much skill as Gail's medic could manage. It would be an extraordinary night for those men: finally finding two high-value targets, Regina and Kesler, only to be forced to abandon them. The poor medic even had to treat a wanted criminal, all at the insistence of his commander.

Gail's feverish mannerisms and aggressive tone had immediately made him the undisputed centre of attention. For the moment he was content with silence.

"Hospitalisation would be optimal for these injuries, particularly her leg," said the muffled voice of Gail's masked medic. "Given the situation," he continued with a glance at Kesler, "it's not exactly an option, though these wounds will still require care from someone competent, not any idiot with a first aid kit."

"We've done this before without a hospital," Jane said, cringing when every person in the room turned to stare at her. The medic raised an eyebrow and nodded, evidently not interested in the details.

"We're leaving to find Anders and kill her," Gail declared, returning to the centre of attention. "I'm leaving Regina with you, Kirk. That means the responsibility for her welfare is yours, and so is the blame if this goes wrong. Remember our agreement and leave this to us." He glared at Harper, Jane, and Kesler in turn. "I'll give you all one chance. Continue opposing us and the next time we meet won't be so pleasant."

Harper looked to be trying his best to hide in the back away from them all. Jane nodded with more vigour, but Andrea Kesler ran a hand over her face and groaned. "I have no idea what to think. We'll do as you say, if only because Eliza is my superior and what she did here is detestable. I threw my career away to stop atrocities, not to sit back and let them happen."

Gail nodded in response, a gesture that almost resembled grudging respect. "Right. Expect to hear from me soon, Kirk. Let's go." He turned without another word and ran for the exit, his masked allies at his side.

With their absence the rest of them fell silent, only the sound of rain beating on the windows left to distract them from their thoughts. Which of them still knew their place in the world? Kesler and her men retreated to a corner, ultimately leaving with as much haste as Gail. He let them go without complaint. Harper vanished through a rear exit, his troubled expression only growing darker as the sun began to fade.

A light touch on his shoulder was enough to make Kirk flinch. "I'm going to go prepare for our exit. She won't try to hurt us now," Jane's reassuring voice said in his ear. The same van, medical equipment and all, he and Mirzin had been thrown in after the foundry incident was going to prove its worth once more. Underestimating others was something he'd done once too often. Dmitri Mirzin: short, unintimidating, acted the fool. It was as much a lie as Anders' stoic exterior and his own attempt to be nothing more than the perfect embodiment of a scientist.

In the distance he heard the piercing sound of the first of many raid sirens. Initially far away, likely at western command, then gradually growing closer. It was a harsh sound, one that felt more a taunt than a warning after all he now knew, but he knew there was nothing he could have done to stop her. Regina was alive. That was, as Anders had pointed out, the goal he'd chosen to place above all others.

Alone at last, he fell down against a cargo container facing the chair with his head in his hands. Was this the right decision? Of all the outcomes she'd offered was there a better way, something that would've achieved more and cost less?

The incessant ringing of the sirens grew louder. Well, he considered, the real problem was what to do next. The promise he made to Gail, agreeing to avoid the conflict entirely, and his promise to Harper, helping him dismantle Alvernia as a military threat, were completely incompatible. Given that situation it was safe to say…

"Hey, what's with the noise?"

Regina was staring at him, or trying to, from her crumpled position in the chair. For someone both injured and drugged the alertness in her eyes was hard to believe.

"As you said. She won," Edward replied with an indifferent shrug. "I suppose it's not our problem now."

"If you say so. Gail's going to blame himself for this." A long, agonising moment of silence. "You're not who I thought you were either, Kirk. It's a pleasant change."

He looked up, startled. "I'd never have believed it. Everyone from you to the woman I came here to confront has said that same thing. I'll start to believe it myself before long."

"People change, don't they? I told you that because I believe it." Regina's attempt at cheerfulness was morbidly contrasted by her ruined appearance and the grim surroundings. She raised her right hand, losing the optimistic tone entirely. "She's given me no choice but to change. A soldier without a trigger finger. I bet she thought that was poetic."

He felt his hand clench into a fist at his side. "Pretending it's meaningful to subdue someone and break them into the person you want them to be… I need to make her understand how wrong she is." Standing up with effort, he walked over to the chair and knelt down.

"Something wrong?" To hear that from someone in her position was so absurd he could barely restrain laughter.

"More things than I can list. We made it through tonight, but tomorrow?" He sighed, realising they could expect no rest, not even a hint of peace. "When does it end?"

"It doesn't. Did you ever imagine you'd be here the first time you met me? How about all those times you saw Anders without knowing what she really was? What do we really know? All we can do is try to make it all worthwhile."

"I don't know how to do that." It was an admission of inadequacy, and one of the most honest things he'd ever said.

Her left hand, slow and stiff and caked in dried blood, reached across and gripped his shoulder. "Neither do I. Miserable as this is, I'd still say we've got a better shot at making it work than she does. That's got to be enough for now."

This time he couldn't hold back the laughter. "After all this, to think we're facing an enemy who can win as much as she likes and still gain nothing. Why couldn't I see it that way? I'd have been lost without you, this one time I'll refuse to deny it."

She redirected her intense stare, meeting his own gaze directly with an amused smile. What undeniable strength even in her moment of ruin. "I'm glad you think so. I don't know how we did it, Kirk. It's ridiculous enough to think let alone say, but the two of us might really be all that's left."

A metallic groan and the echoing sound of wet boots on concrete announced Jane's return. He stood up, one hand on his knee for leverage.

"It's more than I started with. Why complain now?"


	19. Chapter 19

_Note: This significant scene was intended to be written from two perspectives for reasons that should be immediately apparent. None of the existing point of view characters were present while it happened, most obviously. With that in mind, the first half (this chapter) is shown from the perspective of one of Gail's buddies, and then he returns to finish things off in the next one. They were separated because a sixteen thousand word chapter with a POV split in the middle is a bit ridiculous. Same story either way._

_Warning for explicit content._

The significance of the occasion was surpassed only by the sheer opulence of the military's preparations. Within a week the western command centre had been transformed, at least on the outside, from a fortress on the brink of war to a site appropriate for the hosting of one of the first real concessions by the Alvernian state that the desires of the nation's people were of any significance at all.

Not that many of those invited to the event in person were likely to appreciate that significance. The guests were primarily drawn from lists of regular visitors to the command centre. Military officers and their families, civilian officials, many of the more affluent members of society—more guests than not were beneficiaries of the policies being addressed. A carefully selected and moderately sized group of ordinary citizens had been invited based on vague criteria known only to the legions of bureaucrats responsible for the presentation's planning. Everyone else would have to be content with the state media's broadcast, one which admittedly would be shown live to the entire nation.

Indeed, for a presentation intended to address, among other things, such sensitive matters as rampant inequality, economic exploitation, the ever-growing influence of the state military, and the excessively harsh treatment of the frontier zones, particularly the recently subjugated northern area, it would be easy to view the beauty and grandeur of the event as distasteful. The looming threat of civil revolt was never far from anyone's minds.

These were some of the more obvious observations that could be, but rarely had been, made as the early stages of the event began in the enormous courtyard below. Watching from a disused office on the fourth floor of the command centre's main building, lights strategically dimmed to hide her presence, Miranda Pretsin watched alone as an unhealthily large woman she didn't recognise finished a long speech on the nation's glorious history and recent achievements.

Were they being deliberately offensive? Even her own limited experience with politics was enough to tell her the organisers had hidden more than one subtle—or perhaps not so subtle—insult directed at the masses, already so close to open revolt.

Despite being completely unimportant, very well concealed, and entirely alone, Miranda's instinct was to conceal herself at the corner of the office's round window. Everything from the polished oak desk to the uncountable numbers of soldiers in indigo ceremonial uniforms made her nervous, though she took great care to conceal this despite knowing the main building was all but empty. Weakness was punished severely in a place like this.

A collection of important individuals sat in a place of great prominence, General Hereson and Minister Vorman foremost among them, placed together as if in some grand gesture of unity. The question of unity among rulers was never the issue to begin with, or so she thought. It was difficult not to despise these people. A childhood in poverty, parents overworked and underpaid, friends who'd suffered far worse. None of it had ever been questioned, of course, and why would it be?

Not that her prospects had even been particularly promising. A career in the military, perhaps, if her father called in a favour or two. Many of the officers had a bias for young women on their staff, it was commonly known, and her grim manner seemed appropriate enough for the military. Colonel Royce's office was one of the more pleasant places to work, her father often said, and it was well known that Lieutenant Colonel Anders had nearly castrated a senior officer when he tried to molest her not even a year after signing up. They all sounded likeable enough.

A slowly developing and quickly worsening psychiatric illness put an end to any hope of a military career, not that she'd particularly cared. The signs had been there for years. Erratic mood swings, long periods of apathy that approached catatonia at their worst, and a growing inability to handle daily tasks alone became too much to ignore. So much so that her father had accepted a foul offer from the distinguished general below, involving himself in a conflict best left alone. It was difficult not to feel bitter; he hadn't even asked if that was what she would have wanted, and yet that felt terribly ungrateful.

It hadn't seemed such a bad idea, even if the woman she'd once mildly hoped could be a mentor had proven herself terrifyingly violent in person. A room full of dangerous people, from the near-silent man who'd taken on her wellbeing as some curious personal mission, even the man who'd killed both her parents, his behaviour more deranged than her own worst periods of sickness. None of them frightened her the way Anders had at the end.

Even Royce, likeable as he'd always appeared, had still told her to follow them downstairs. She didn't believe for a moment the Colonel hadn't understood what her appearance would do to that man, Harper. Just another pawn in their games, of course, much like her father and much like everyone else she knew.

Thunderous applause erupted from the crowd as yet another official approached the podium ready to speak for another twenty minutes and, undoubtedly, say absolutely nothing in doing so. An involuntary sigh, not the first and certainly not the last, and Miranda looked away from the spectacle below, taking the opportunity to lean back in her chair and rest one leg over the officer's desk. Whatever their reasoning, there was something vile about the entire thing. Abusing the furniture was a petty way to get revenge, but it would have to be enough.

Still, she considered, tapping her boot against the polished wood and deliberately scratching it, she was one of them now. Military career after all, though only as an assistant to a man whose own position was rather questionable. His name was Gail: a raid team leader, an investigator, a diplomat, a general's right hand man? Who could say?

The day he'd broken into her parents' apartment had been rather ordinary. Food and money were running dangerously low, the blood soaked into the floor still refused to vanish of its own accord, and the plan was still to wait until existing became unmanageable before attempting suicide. An intimidating man, no doubt. Tall, a permanent scowl, short blonde hair, and enormous muscles. None of it compared to the distant look in his eyes.

Instead of making her disappear, as was common for the relatives of disgraced officers, he'd watched. And she saw it in his eyes by the end. Somehow he knew. After that it wasn't long: quarters at western command, food, company, and an offer to assist him in his investigation. One dedicated to finding, among others, the people who'd murdered her parents. Such a touching gesture from someone so cold, and not a hint of an ulterior motive. Well, not one that was any of her business. Nothing was her business, and here she was: reclining in a traitorous colonel's chair, borrowed boots scratching his desk. It wasn't satisfying, but it was something.

More applause, this round slightly subdued. A long speech justifying the oppressive subjugation policies acknowledging the need for reform and the willingness of the northern peoples to join the broader Alvernian community. It was slimy enough to make her cringe, though the crowd didn't seem to agree.

Perhaps Gail agreed. He'd vanished some hours before with a vague claim that he had business in the city. Rather odd, she'd thought, but not enough to ask. Observations were simple enough; gathering the energy to act? Who could be bothered? Even without that, it was difficult to see why any of them bothered fighting. A career in the military, or anywhere, would be so dull, and without a pleasant ideology to hide the dullness… how did they do it?

She shook her head, trying to avoid succumbing to another session of bitterness. The fat bureaucrat below discussing oppressed people like commodities wasn't making that any easier. Would they care if she used Royce's letter opener to deface such a lovely desk? Her hand wrapped around the ivory hilt and set to work at ruining the Colonel's old office.

"Well, this is ominous. Not a fan of oak, or is it the speech?" a cheerful voice said from the larger office outside. The abrupt interruption was enough to make her flinch, even without considering she'd been caught defacing valuable furniture.

"It's the speech. And this place. And the man who used to sit here," Miranda replied, her voice a dull monotone.

The dim lighting highlighted the lit cigarette hanging out of the intruder's mouth. They were all breaking regulations, clearly. Only two people ever bothered to come and find her: Gail, who was likely shooting something in the city below, and Hereson's assistant, a rather unconventional man.

Richard entered and sat on the other side, his glamorous dress uniform crinkling instantly. He didn't seem to care. Noticing her unrelenting stare at last, he smiled reassuringly. "I don't care if you carve up Royce's desk. If he ever wants it back, well, he can take it up with Gail. Trust me, at times like this you can do what you like. Everyone's got bigger problems on their mind," As if to punctuate his statement he held the end of the cigarette to the desk, burning its immaculate surface.

That was reassuring. Or would be, if it wasn't so obviously meant to be. Why was he here? She was nobody. He had status, family, money, and connections. At least Gail's interest stemmed from personal guilt or something similar, something predictable and pleasant.

"I hope he never wants it back," she murmured, looking back outside as the crowd erupted into another round of applause. The speakers were becoming more important.

"He's not so bad. Great politician, I'll tell you that much. Better than any of them down there," Richard said, throwing the burnt out cigarette at the window. "Even the general, if I'm honest."

"I hate them all. They're all the same, every last one. This entire show makes me sick." That was far too honest, but she didn't care. He'd forgive her anything, no doubt.

Richard leaned back in his chair. "Smart. Takes most people a lot longer to figure that out." His eyes narrowed, head tilting to one side. "There's something I've been meaning to ask. After you went with Gail to that island your… well, _political_ opinions have been a bit more extreme. Royce not the man you thought he was?"

Was this his motive? Her assumption had been that his interest in her was thinly disguised sexual desire. This was one thing Gail hadn't asked. Capable as the man was, he refused to ask the right questions until far too late.

"Gail told me to stay with him while he went with that woman, Anders, to confront someone," Miranda replied, recounting it as a dull monologue. "When we were alone he stared at me for a while. He asked some questions, mostly about Gail's work. Before long he said we were going to follow them. He made me go out there and look at the man who killed my parents."

"None of us mattered. I could see it in his eyes. So pale and blue, it's hard to forget even now. I didn't matter, his officers didn't matter, even his friend Anders. He didn't care, and neither did the rest of them. Everyone down there is the same. All fighting for a bigger share of what they've stolen."

Richard remained silent for a long moment, eyes still narrowed thoughtfully. "You tell Gail about that?"

She shook her head. "He's got bigger things to worry about. He's still looking for that friend of his, you know."

"Is that so? Might explain his absence tonight. Not that I can fault him there, I blew off a seat in the front row to come up here."

"Why?" If he lied, that was the end of this.

"I can be myself here. Not the state media presenter, not the general's assistant. Just some jerk who doesn't believe half what he's got to say." A long stare in response, and he sighed. "Look, I walked in on you holding a knife and that was weird, but we're not watching you. Not me, not Gail, not anyone. Doesn't mean I'm not going to worry when you're alone listening to the kind of stuff these guys have got to say."

"If that's true then tell me without lying. What's the point?" Miranda asked, tapping the glass behind her.

An even longer stare, as if he hoped she'd get uncomfortable and look away. Not likely.

"This is a peace offering," he finally admitted. "You think this country can walk away from a revolution? Internal conflict when you rely on brute force to stay on top means, how do I say this? Well, you're fucked when your army splits in half and destroys itself. The only way to pull off a revolution is with the military's help, and you're going to have one hell of an ugly situation if that ever happens."

Too vague. "But Royce wants to revolt. I was on the island, I heard them say it. The country deserves to be split in half, that's what she said," Miranda objected, a hint of interest creeping into her voice, which he noticed immediately.

"She? Royce contacted us only a few days back. He did, not that ice queen he keeps around to threaten people with. His price is going to be steep. Enough reforms that it might as well be a revolution, actually, but he's willing to compromise."

"Compromise," she repeated, mouthing the word as if it were new to her. "You mean all he's going to do is threaten you if you don't meet his demands? Not actually invade?"

"Exactly. This presentation is just an excuse for the negotiations to start. It'll cost the guys in command a lot of power, I think, but it's better than having a veritable empire reduced to a few far weaker countries all fighting between each other. And there's no guarantee that any of their goals would survive the revolution anyway. Might be a workers' paradise, might be a military dictatorship. Maybe Borginia wants revenge and finally gets its chance. Who wants to take the risk?"

That was what people usually would call good news, Miranda thought. Gail wouldn't approve, probably, but he'd be happier with that than open war. Sometimes she wondered how much he really cared. The people he'd met the other day, all for the sake of this woman he'd trained, were wanted criminals, she suspected, and he'd gone to so much effort all for her. On the other hand he'd admitted choosing to stay in Merestan had isolated him from all his former friends and allies.

"Hey, Vorman's speech is about to start," Richard said, his face pressed to the glass. "What an asshole. Most corrupt politician in the nation, I'd bet. We've kept him here for months just so nobody else can bribe him before we do."

That made her smile, if only a little. Honesty was always pleasant. Their country was such a miserable place even for men in his position. A life spent pretending to be someone you're not: that was the price for power.

"You're wrong, you know. I don't know how wrong, but I heard what they said. It doesn't make sense."

"You said _she_ was the only to say that. Eliza is one hell of a strategist, no doubt, but that's all part of the threat. The last few months, all this sabotage and fighting in the streets, that's how she starts. I'm telling you not to worry. Nobody wants to see her strategies used on our people, not even Royce. That's why Vorman's down there pretending he understands what it means when he offers to scale back the influence of the private sector and military in the government."

Richard turned back, leaning on the wall next to the window. His uniform desperately needed ironing if he intended to go back on camera. "Look, this is just my take on it. I knew Royce, and I knew Anders. Even asked her out once, but that didn't go so well. They're smarter than this lot," he said, nodding at the window, "and they're going to do this the easy way. Why do you think Gail's so pissed off every time he hears their names? They go way back, believe me."

He was probably right. What did she know, after all? Vorman's dull if loud voice, echoing throughout the entire command centre, was promising all sorts of overhauling to their economic policies, though not in any real detail.

"So what's your goal?"

"Not combat duty, that's what. Unofficial promotions are even more valuable than official around here. Gail's just some guy, right? But everyone knows he and Hereson are buddies, which means he could probably tell a major what to do and they'd do it just because of that relationship. He's like the secret police, or something." Richard's passion for the intricacies of politics was obvious, and even enviable.

He watched the speaker silently for a moment with a troubled air. "We're trying to improve things, you know? It's just an endless fight between the officials in central, the military in the west, and the more powerful parts of private society. Everyone wants something different, and the average guy's always on the losing end. That's a simplistic explanation, but I know you're not fond of what we do here."

"Is that why they're trying to use the threat of rebellion to force change?"

"Probably. Royce's group tried for internal reform for a long time and never got anywhere." He turned away and focused on the speech below, visibly uncomfortable. It was a moment of unusual bluntness for him, she knew.

"What about you? Before, well, you know, did you have any plans?" Richard eventually asked, clearly trying to give her a chance to say something and choosing an especially awkward topic in doing so.

"I'm not exactly the ambitious type." That was putting it mildly.

"Oh. Yeah, I should've thought before opening my mouth," Richard said, rubbing the back of his head with a glance out the window.

"It's fine. Pretty standard question, really," Miranda murmured. Her leg was beginning to ache from being stretched for such a long period of time, so she turned back to look out the window. The knife remained embedded in Royce's desk.

"Vorman's just about done, I think. These speechwriters did a shit job if they want to calm people down. Listening to a bunch of old fucks condescend to you isn't what people need, but they told me to stay out of it. Vorman insisted his department would handle the preparations, a nice and diplomatic way of telling the military to piss off. It's worked so well, don't you think? " Richard said as the finance minister entered the concluding stage of his speech.

Did he speak that way to the other officials? She doubted it, but he wasn't wrong. A hint of hope and a not so veiled insulting tone. Was it all part of the show? Was he putting on another show for her benefit?

The crowd's muttering and polite applause began anew as Vorman paused for breath, arms raised in a grandiose gesture. It all seemed so routine, like a small event in a series of events, all planned and undeniably inevitable.

A sonorous crack erupted from the rear of the audience, the deafening sound silencing both Vorman's speech and the mass of spectators within a single second. For the briefest moment the silence persisted, an overwhelming sense of dread overcoming the crowd, each and every one of them pulling back in a display of undisguised fear, their dignity and station entirely forgotten in the rush to recoil.

It wasn't hard to see why. Vorman collapsed back onto the stage, the back of his head giving way to a mass of gore. Soldiers in blue-grey uniform stormed the area, seizing Hereson and the other leaders and hiding them behind a mass of riot shields and body armour. More soldiers, heavily armed and unvaryingly wearing indigo, approached the crowd with rifles drawn; only inducing even more panic. The screams and cries could be heard even from their position on the fourth floor.

"Oh, fuck, why would they do this now? We'd agreed on a ceasefire," Richard said, nearly shouting at the crowd below, his expression a feverish mix of alarm and horror, one hand fumbling with his pocket.

"Calm down, something's happening," Miranda murmured, unable to look away from the violence. A second gunshot; then a third. Two soldiers fell to the floor, one shot through the head, the other through the abdomen. Several crowd members were firing indiscriminately at the soldiers from multiple directions, and it wasn't long before the less composed guards began to fire back, their powerful rifles tearing through the audience in a futile attempt to kill the gunmen.

"Someone turn those cameras off, cut the broadcast, you hear me?" Richard shouted into his phone to no response. He slammed it on the desk and looked back helplessly.

This was turning into a massacre, all of it captured and shown live to the entire nation. Three ceremonial guards in indigo uniform returned fire, killing one of the gunmen and hitting perhaps a dozen guests in the process. A young woman was crawling along the floor, a gaping hole in her abdomen trailing blood on the stone path under her. The crowd's attempt to flee combined with periodic shots from the masses of people was only escalating the situation, five more guests cut down while they watched helplessly.

"Why are they doing this?" Miranda whispered, hoping he'd understand and knowing he wouldn't.

"I… I don't know. It's not supposed to be this way. I don't understand."

Four older men in suits ran the wrong way, reaching a wall and turning back with their hands in the air. One reached for his pocket and the soldiers gunned them all down, the gleaming white wall behind stained with gore. An elderly woman was crushed in the rush to escape, and another gunshot emanating from a crowd provided all the justification needed to kill them all. The cameras followed each and every atrocity, and finally Miranda understood, even before Hereson's assistant did.

One suited man, unarmed and crawling along the floor with a wounded leg, was executed with a shot to the back of the head. An entire family, including their three young children, were deliberately targeted when they reached the grand stairway, their bodies crushed in the rush to flee. The stands were filled with corpses and debris, and yet members of the crowd continued firing back. This was deliberate. Vorman's death was only a pretext, Richard had been wrong and she'd been right. How could it be otherwise?

Two soldiers in regular uniform stood at the far end, rifles pointed at the ground, their faces twisted with uncertainty and terror. The slow whine of the command centre's raid sirens filled the air, muffling the incessant firing of guns and screaming. It was a pointless gesture; perhaps half of the audience had been injured or killed, shot or crushed underfoot, and all in attempt to kill two dozen gunners concealed within.

"This is absolutely incredible. It's the perfect way to do it, if you can live with having made this happen," Richard whispered, kneeling down with a hand on his stomach, his face twisted into the expression of a man close to vomiting. "It must be them, but I never once expected this."

Most of the crowd had escaped down the central stairway; those who remained, more often than not, were mortally wounded and dying. The marble plaza was a nightmarish landscape, more corpses than could be counted laying in pools of viscera, the dying feebly clinging to life. A young boy cradling a woman's corpse fell against a pillar in a futile attempt to conceal himself; a man reached for a fallen pistol, intent on taking revenge only to die in the attempt.

All they could do was watch, fascinated and horrified. No matter where she looked it was the same. Her eyes darted from one atrocity to the next, as if the soldiers were deliberately engaging in the worst acts they could imagine. An armoured squad appeared from the stairway and began gunning down the attackers, likely trying to salvage the government's reputation. It seemed a futile attempt.

A firm hand on her shoulder broke the trance. "Miranda, let's go, some of them are entering the main building. They are _not_ our friends, you understand?" Richard said, his low voice sounding almost pained.

A slow nod was all he needed in response, dragging her across to the door before she pulled her hand back. He seemed to be suffering more than she was; of course, he had a personal investment in this situation.

"Can we call Gail? He'd know what to do," she asked, trying to distract him from his terror. Gail had said he'd be away all night on a mission near the coast, so she doubted it. Even if he hadn't been, what could he have done?

"He's rather busy, you'll have to try another time," a cheerful voice said from the door, though its owner, a rather short, lean man in a ceremonial uniform, looked as surprised as they were.

Richard fell back in surprise, one hand jumping to his hip, though he'd never once worn a weapon in her presence. Miranda stepped forward and took a better look at the intruder despite the dim light. He raised his own weapon slightly, but an unarmed young woman without a uniform clearly hadn't been what he'd expected.

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing here? Can't you see what's going on out there? Time to evacuate, lady," the short man said, terribly indignant if his tone was to be believed, and she knew it wasn't.

"Why did you do it?" Miranda asked, taking another step closer. He looked familiar, if only vaguely, but the complete lack of surprise or fear in his face gave away his complicity.

"Look," he said, losing the cheerful look in less than a second, "I'm telling you now, leave." He looked at Morrent and his eyes widened. "Oh, shit, you too? _Get out now_, both of you, you think this is a fucking joke?"

"Something wrong, Dmitri?" a dry voice said from the doorway, and a second intruder in indigo entered. Quite slender and marginally taller than Dmitri, her long blonde hair was flowing freely in a way that definitely would have violated regulations if she were actually a soldier. Her appearance, her casual manner, even the disrespect shown for the office: it all seemed quite intentional.

"No, just… they're not a problem. Let's just let them go and get on with it," Dmitri said, turning to keep all three of them in his view.

"Unusual place to be during such a glamorous event, a traitor's old office," the woman said, stepping closer. Richard's face went pale and this time he did vomit, turning to the side and falling to his knees.

"Not as dignified as you are on the public broadcasts, Morrent. Was it something I said? And who's this, your lover?"

Miranda stepped closer and confirmed her suspicions. The woman from Ibis Island and a man who'd worked with her father. "I remember you. Are you the reason Gail's not here? He said he'd kill you if he saw you again." She wasn't hostile, merely curious.

"You're here? I see. You wouldn't want to be down there, would you? He's having a reunion with some old friends. He'll be back soon, I expect, just in time to get some blood on his boots," Eliza Anders said, looking at Dmitri over her shoulder. "Try Anton's office. I'll entertain our guests."

"That's smart. Is that woman he's looking for there? And that man you tried to kill?"

"You're an interesting one to have guessed so much. They were both there, though I was never going to kill Harper. We're such good friends, you have to understand, and friends don't just kill each other," she said, her voice dripping with mockery.

Dmitri entered the office at the back and she continued speaking. "Gail's not the sort of man to keep you as a plaything, so I assume he feels responsible for your parents' death. I never could stand him. Far too emotional, far too stubborn, never for the right reasons. Wasted potential, you understand?" Anders said, staring at them both with a blank expression.

"You've really done it this time, Eliza," Richard said from his kneeling position. "We had an agreement with Royce not to attack, to negotiate. What the fuck did you do this for?"

Anders knelt down and looked at him, her long hair brushing against her knee. "We made the loyalists in the ceremonial guard vanish, and the remainder aren't a fan of your policies. Executing plutocrats and officials was rather fun for them, you have to understand. Most of them have wanted to do it for a long time."

"He didn't ask how you did it, he asked why," Miranda murmured, fully aware she was likely to die here.

"I told Gail this, didn't I? You've got a spine, so how long until he finds his?" Anders replied, evidently satisfied with her lack of anxiety. "Anton tried to arrange negotiations behind my back. He knew I wouldn't agree. He knew a sizable portion of our army would've sided with me. Then he lied to me and sent me here to wait where he thought I'd be harmless. If he thought it would be that easy, well, take a look out the window." She stood up, glanced at the door to Royce's personal office, and looked down at them with a curious expression.

That was almost sad, Miranda thought. To do so much for someone only to have them try to throw you away. Even someone like Anders would have to feel that way. "Why would you want to destroy your own country? My father used to say you could've made it to the top if you wanted."

"Your father was naïve and that's why he's dead. Every last person here is forced to lie to themselves to survive and if you dare to be honest you end up like me. What do you think you're protecting by opposing me, how about you ask Gail that? He's weak. He pretends what's he's doing is meaningful because if it wasn't he'd have nothing to live for. I admire people who admit it, even if it does kill them." There was a hint of genuine passion in her voice, the mockery and sarcasm almost giving way to bitterness for the briefest second.

"You're going about it the wrong way," Richard said, getting up with difficulty. "You'll tear this country apart, kill half its people, and when it's done it'll all be exactly the same. Are you really that stupid, Eliza?"

"More people have died on my orders than either of us have ever met, Morrent, and your beloved general thanked me for each and every one of them. Now it's his turn." The door opened and Dmitri returned with one hand in his pocket.

"Anything?" Anders asked, glancing over, all signs of emotion fading in an instant.

Dmitri shook his head. "Place has been cleaned out. The only thing left was his letter opener," he said, holding it up as if to prove his claim.

"I suppose it doesn't matter. Perhaps we shouldn't have let Kirk leave after all. I suppose there'll be other opportunities." Anders said, listening intently for a moment. The gunfire had mostly stopped, though the sirens were harsher than ever. Some of the shooting, they all realised, was coming from inside the building, perhaps as close as the floor below.

"I told you he was hiding something. Why didn't you ask her when—"Mirzin began to say, but a slow gesture from his partner put an abrupt end to that.

All four of them fell silent. Richard looked ready to throw up again the moment he looked at the knife.

"Hey, Mirzin," Richard finally said, finding his nerve. "Mind telling me what you're doing with her if she's split from Royce? You worshipped that guy, and don't try to deny it."

Dmitri came over, still playing with the knife, and looked confused for a brief moment. "You know my background. Not all of us are from the old money, Rich. He lied to us all; it turns out that he's going to stop at _negotiating_, at getting concessions. I'm not going to be satisfied until every last bastard running this country is rotting in the street and neither is she. That means I'm with her, no matter where that leads," Mirzin said, pointing at the woman next to him with genuine conviction in his words. His tone could switch between carefree and severe within a second.

"You see? Actual passion. Self-destructive, most likely, but wouldn't you like to die for something satisfying?" Anders said, shrugging before delicately pulling the knife from Mirzin's hand. "I showed another man what his passion was earlier today. Used to be a researcher, now he's… well, not much, and happier for it. He's made too many mistakes in the process, however."

The sound of submachine gun fire in the hall outside wiped the self-satisfied, even mildly agitated, smirk from her face, if only for a slight moment. The double doors slammed open and two soldiers, both women, stepped through, still firing out into the hall. An agonised shout outside and two more bursts finished off what appeared to be two loyalist guards who'd been pursing them.

Anders raised an eyebrow. "Excellent timing. Thank you."

One of them blushed, Miranda notice with some incredulity, but they both seemed pleased. A third soldier, his once indigo uniform stained red with gore, entered holding an enormous woman at gunpoint and threw her to the floor. The same person who'd made one of the opening speeches, they all quickly realised.

"Oh? You actually managed to do it?" Anders said, evidently surprised. The captive, more than twice Anders' size in every respect, looked up, her eyes bulging with undisguised fear.

"Hereson and the military command staff are underground, definitely out of reach, but we caught up to a few of the department heads from floor three," one of the soldiers explained, a definite note of self-satisfaction in her youthful voice.

"Impressive. What happened to the others?"

"One of them pulled a pistol, another tried to run. Neither made it out alive, I'm afraid. We made a copy of their databases, as requested. Used her to bypass the retina scanner, told her we'd let her live if she helped us."

"You can't be here," the captive muttered, her voice trembling so heavily the words were almost indistinguishable from the blaring sirens. "You were one of us, we gave you everything, you had it all and you threw it away for nothing."

That last utterance was perhaps the absolute worst possible thing she could have said, given what Miranda knew of Anders' motivations. The former lieutenant colonel knelt down next to her, her expression nothing but feigned calmness, and drove the letter opener into her spine, ignoring the older woman's pitiable screams entirely. No interrogation; she didn't even bother gloating, as if the woman were beneath her notice.

"Gave me everything? You've never given anyone anything you hadn't stolen first. You never had anything to give except your own life, and nobody," she said between her teeth, seizing the knife and dragging it down, "_nobody_, ever cared for that. How many people must have dreamed of killing you; how lucky am I to have the chance to do it?"

Richard threw up again, falling to his hands and knees. Mirzin was forcing himself to watch: this was the path he'd chosen, and he was determined to see it through. It was fascinating, and she knew there was something wrong with her response, that she ought to have been disgusted, even terrified. It was so hard to feel anything, especially when the dying woman beneath her had coordinated the redistribution of public resources to the military for years. Even a hint of satisfaction, was that so wrong?

"Eliza, we're going to have to leave. The reinforcements from the gate garrison should be here by now; they'll cut off our exit if we don't move soon," Mirzin said, his expression shifting between satisfaction and disgust several times as he said it.

"You're right. I get too distracted. It's going to be the death of me, no doubt," she murmured. Both soldiers moved to guard the door. Such power she had, Miranda realised. Why did they follow her? And yet her rhetoric, the idea of fighting and dying in pursuit of something truly satisfying, was undeniably appealing.

"Anyone have anything to ask this creature?" Anders asked, looking at each of them in turn. The woman in question was shuddering on the floor, one hand reaching to stem the flow of blood from her back, but her legs were completely flaccid.

"Didn't think so. I always told you it would end this way, Ms Director. Three department heads in a night certainly meets my productivity quota. Efficient enough to impress even you, I'm sure." She gestured lazily at Mirzin, who ended the director's suffering with a bullet to the back of her head. His hand was shaking as he did it, Miranda noticed.

"You two might be a problem. It was an interesting discussion, but you're not really supposed to have seen either of us," Anders said, retrieving Royce's letter opener and lightly pressing it into the palm of her hand.

"We'll keep quiet," Richard said, recovering his energy the moment she finished speaking. "We've got no reason to fight you, haven't done anything against you. Come on, I'm just the guy they get to read the news, and she's not even in the military, we're nobodies." The panic in his voice was as obvious as the sweat running down his brow. Mirzin looked uncomfortable, but seemed unable to speak.

"That's true enough. You're an ambitious sycophant, hardly a patriot. As for the girl, she's far too interesting to have killed, and I don't like to waste interesting people. You'll both be useful, no doubt, and if not I don't lose anything," she said, tapping the corpse with her boot.

"How about this? You can leave here alive, but I'll expect you to return the favour, whatever that may mean, at some point in the near future."

Richard tried to look at Anders as he spoke, ultimately unable to tolerate the intensity of her stare. "And if I don't?" That seemed a stupid thing to say, and Mirzin actually cringed.

"You've been quivering ever since I arrived. Whatever's made you so scared will pale in comparison to the treatment you'll get for lying. After tonight you'll have enough enemies to keep you busy for quite some time, you must realise. Don't make me one of them."

"Why are you so certain?" Miranda asked, unable to stop herself from asking. Self-confidence was such an interesting thing to observe.

"You don't think I'd commit to something so ambitious without understanding the consequences? Whether this was a real atrocity or not is irrelevant to the public; the satisfaction of finally having a reason to revolt will be more than enough. The people despise your government, and so should you." A slight pause, and her eyes narrowed slightly. "No, I see. You already do hate them." How could she possibly know so much? All three of them stared for a moment, judging her statement, all knowing it was true.

The sound of an explosion in the plaza outside triggered the complex's fire alarm, adding yet another sound to the painful mix of gunfire and what may well have been the raid sirens from every corner of the city.

Mirzin stepped up to Anders' side. "That's the signal, we need to leave now or not at all," he muttered, managing to be polite without showing any explicit deference to her authority. It was perplexing, to see someone so forceful completely disinterested in symbolic gestures of obedience from her subordinates. Every time she'd seen Gail with the general he would salute or even bow without fail.

"I'm aware, Dmitri. You three, clear the hallway. There are one or two minor details I'd like clarified before we leave, if you wouldn't mind," Anders said, gesturing at the empty seats with one hand.


	20. Chapter 20

"We've retaken the main stairway, sir, but it's impossible to say how many of them are still up there," said a tired young woman, the same second lieutenant Gail had worked with ever since his promotion. After weaving through the sea of onlookers and private media standing outside the high walls of the western command centre he'd been dismayed by the pitifully small relief force attempting to control the situation within.

"And the broadcast?" The situation could be salvaged, but that depended entirely on what the public had been allowed to see.

She shook her head, trying and failing to hide a dejected grimace. "The state station shut down right after the initial attack. We haven't been able to contact them, but I saw the broadcast. It looked really bad, like we used overwhelming force just to protect ourselves."

Gail stood back, attempting to remain the voice of reason. His initial reaction had been despair; realising that all his work, all his effort to keep Regina alive, even going so far as to join with three people he'd have once preferred to see dead, had been exactly what their enemy had wanted. Half the audience at Hereson's presentation had been gunned down; the command centre's main plaza was littered with corpses, and the higher end of the central stairway was slick with blood. Worse, the entire city knew it.

It was a foreboding sight, but the only remaining entrance after the two far larger side entrances had been sealed. The fortress had been designed to hold against a siege; nobody had ever seriously anticipated an attack from within and it showed.

"Any contact from the offices?"

Another gloomy shake of her head in response. Hardly inspiring. Was this another trap? Would he reach the top only to be captured? What if Anders had lied and her intention was to kill Regina, Kirk, and Harper all at once after luring him away. This time Gail shook his head, knowing rumination in place of action could easily kill them all. He had greater responsibilities now.

"Keep it together, Ackerman. You think this is bad? Imagine losing the command centre. No matter what we find up, there we can't turn back now," Gail said, discarding the fact that he felt just as tired and miserable, if not more so, than she ever had.

"Sorry, sir. Should I send the rest of the platoon—"

The muffled boom of an explosion in the plaza at the top of the stairway interrupted her; the collective dread in the air was palpable. The remaining half of her platoon raised their rifles, readjusted their armour, and some even seemed to debate simply running back to the city proper. A column of black smoke, thin and undeniably ominous, rose from the elevated platform above them.

"Where's the rest of the garrison?" A second lieutenant and a major holding the outer wall. Not even half the garrison had arrived, even ignoring the traitorous ceremonial guards.

"The gate commander spoke to me when I arrived," she replied, averting her eyes. "Half the garrison either deserted or disappeared after the broadcast. Most of the others are holding the deployment and supply gates or searching the interior. Reinforcements from the north won't arrive for another hour, and the city guards are reporting rioting in most sectors. They can't help us."

A grim assessment. Hesitation wasn't an option. Not now, not if she was up there. This couldn't be the end. The walls were secure, at least, but so few of the garrison were still fighting. Second Lieutenant Lyra Ackerman, his own subordinate, was one of the few to even try. There was something hopeful in that, he wanted to believe.

"Now. We're moving in. Priority is to retake the plaza and the main building," Gail told her, and the ever reliable lieutenant turned and unleashed her remarkably loud voice on the remaining thirty men in her platoon, conveying his orders as if she were genuinely optimistic about their chances without a trace of the weariness or fear he'd seen moments before. None of them believed her, but it helped.

Gail turned to leave, following the first few veterans in the lead, but a light hand on his shoulder was enough to give him pause. The lieutenant was watching carefully, a sullen look on her usually bright face. "Sir, losing contact with command. The ceremonial guard responding so violently. Do you know what it means?"

He did. The words caught in his throat. Even if second lieutenant Lyra Ackerman was nobody at all, certainly not privy to classified information, he was tired of lies and tired of secrecy. One simple lie to another woman who'd trusted him had caused so much pain. How much worse could it be to tell her the truth?

"Former lieutenant colonel Eliza Anders. That's who you should blame. If tonight proved anything it's that she's not alone. We're going to have to stop lying to ourselves and accept that if we'd handled this differently from the start we might not be in this mess. Right now she's winning this fight, you understand? The least we can do is make sure this doesn't get any worse."

That was easier than he'd thought. Even loosened the tightness in his chest, if only for a moment.

"So the rumours really were true? Thanks for being honest, sir. I appreciate it." She genuinely looked grateful, and Gail almost didn't understand why. It seemed such a small thing, but in their life honesty was a rare luxury.

"Don't thank me yet. When we're standing over her corpse, then we'll celebrate," Gail said, doing his best to encourage her the way she'd encouraged their soldiers. It had some mild success; Lyra smiled faintly and nodded, right behind him as they followed the vanguard.

They remained silent until reaching the halfway point of the grand staircase. Not one of the guard posts was manned, and the sun quickly vanished behind the dark clouds in the west as they progressed. As the command centre's automated lights activated the shadows at the top of the flight of steps gave way to a procession of corpses, each gunned down from behind while attempting to flee.

Neither of them spoke, though more than one of the soldiers stopped to stare at one corpse or another. Many of these people had been influential, to say the least.

As they approached the last steps before the top the stench of death became too much to tolerate, and most of them covered their mouths with masks or helmets. The first thing Gail saw at the summit was the source of the column of black smoke: the centre of the stage erected for the presentation was in ruins, destroyed by a shot from a grenade launcher if his guess was correct. Much of the surrounding wood was charred and blackened, the flames having consumed several corpses before burning out.

"This is horrible," his companion said, her wide eyes fixed on a mass of bodies, some still moving, piled against a side wall. The only signs of life were survivors of the massacre; the only ceremonial guards remaining were dead, killed in the initial fighting or during the vanguard's approach.

Gail's unrelenting approach slowed despite his determination to proceed. The images before him: entire families gunned down, systematic slaughter on this scale. It was far too familiar. Was this intentional? During the Borginian subjugation, when he and Royce first met, drawn together by their mutual disgust, sights like this were a daily occurrence. Anders knew that as well as any of them, and now she'd brought the same scenes to the centre of their military's governance.

"Hey, are you with the rescue team? Or… or are you with them?" a pitifully weak voice asked to his left. Lyra turned with a panicked shout, her rifle pointed at a barely conscious man sprawled against a pillar, a gaping hole in his abdomen bleeding uncontrollably. This was the first time she'd seen death on this scale, he knew, and the same was true for so many of them. Most of the survivors would be dead by morning. Many who survived would wish they were dead.

Gail turned back, pushing her away as gently as he could. There was nothing they could do, and she would come to understand that. Regina had been the same, in the first year, but she too had come to understand how futile it was. That she'd understood without being subjected to— and committing—the atrocities he had seemed like something to be thankful for, at least until he'd seen the results of that philosophy personified in the orphaned woman he'd taken on as his assistant.

Of course, if that were true she'd never have been living with them for all this time. Regina had her own approach, as always. Regardless of his past, his impression of this northerner, Harper, was that of an irrevocably damaged man, barely stable, and Gail remembered him as an officer. Calm, outgoing, energetic… and he and Anders were inseparable. Always together, never openly emotional, but he could read people well enough to tell their relationship was more than professional. It was difficult, reconciling the truth with his memories.

After that, if Regina wanted to spend her time with Edward Kirk, of all people, he wouldn't try to stop her. They'd all done despicable things, and hiding them, relying on solitude, had achieved nothing.

That was a dangerous line of thought at a time like this, he knew. The vanguard had reached the main building without incident, navigating the sea of bodies without any further hostility. The squad commander reported only an initial conflict, in which several ceremonial guards fought to the death to buy time for the rest to retreat. As far as they could tell the general and his staff were safe in a series of underground bunkers deep underground, rescued the instant Vorman was killed. They wouldn't have been targets, he knew. Far too valuable as targets for the peoples' anger.

"Orders, sir?" Lyra asked, her subdued tone barely audible past the unceasing blare of the raid sirens. Was that a streak of dark purple in her brown hair? He'd never even understood Regina's choice to dye her own hair bright red. A subdued desire to retain personal identity, perhaps. Putting that out of his mind, Gail knew he was thankful for the noise. Frustrating and useless as it was, it comfortably masked the cries of the dying.

They were all waiting. Was this really it? He, Gail, a man with one name and an all but unofficial position, was the ranking commander?

"Clear the main building. Hold fire unless necessary; it's likely they've all fled by now. This game won't work if they turn it into a siege, but be ready for another trap. Send your best squad to retake the communications area: that's our first priority." Gail ordered, his assertive tone visibly comforting many of them. Was this leadership? Pretending to be something you're not for the benefit of your subordinates?

He watched as Lyra conveyed his orders, directing their three squads and the vanguard unit with more skill than he'd expected, despite having worked with her while hunting down Kesler's group. Having met, and even cooperated, with Kesler at Kirk's behest was something he knew should be kept quiet.

Except hiding that information seemed entirely unacceptable. Even more lies? The prospect of simply avoiding the truth was unquestionably seductive. It was far too easy to pretend it could ever solve his problems. There was nothing harder than telling the truth, nothing easier than justifying deception.

"You know, if this works, we're going to have retaken the entire western command centre," Lyra said, looking at him as if it was a sudden realisation, her eyes widening with shock. "The centre of government for the entire western district, pretty much the entire state military, and it all came down to us?"

"Retaken? It's completely abandoned. This was a message, not an assault. Remember why we're here, lieutenant." Realising how harsh that sounded, he paused for a moment and heaved a long sigh.

"I won't lie. It doesn't ever get easier," Gail said, nodding at the bloody scene before them, "but every time you have to see this you'll be even more determined never to let it happen again. Remember that, Ackerman, and you'll make it through this."

Lyra nodded solemnly, revealing her youth with the gesture. Barely younger than Regina, in truth, but the brightness in her eyes was something Regina had lost to cynicism many years past. Even so, she was right. Such a monumental act at a time like this wouldn't be forgotten.

"Sir? The ground floor is completely empty. Several corpses, no activity. They've secured the communications area already," she said, barely restraining a slight wave intended to pull him out of his thoughts.

"And the other floors?"

"A few survivors, even a few bodies, but most of the offices are empty. It doesn't really look like they entered the main building at all." She was clearly confused even if it made perfect sense that they'd flee. Their entire show would crumble if they were seen attacking other soldiers, and nobody in their position would stay around long enough to be killed by reinforcements from below.

"Pull one squad out and have them secure the exterior. We'll handle the rest of the interior ourselves. Contact the underground floors and share all our information with them."

She nodded, relaying his commands through the device on her wrist. It was surprisingly simple, he'd realised, to transfer his experience to commanding larger forces. Sending thirty men to their potential deaths was what he'd done, but it felt more like moving pieces on an elaborate board than commanding living people.

The palatial ground floor of the command centre was all but deserted, its empty halls a vast contrast from the usual hordes of officials and workers that crowded its offices. Four guards had been killed in what looked like a short firefight near one of the main staircases, the polished marble tiles stained with even more blood.

In times of emergency, specifically the worst kind of emergency, the staff had a ten minute window to evacuate to the emergency shelters deep under western command. The underground offices were just as well equipped, but had never been used in Gail's memory. That, in addition to the already low levels of staff, accounted for the emptiness. Still, the sheer disparity and emptiness was making them all uncomfortable.

All eight floors were cleared within the hour. Several corpses, including three department heads, one who'd been found with a knife through her spine, were recorded, but that wasn't their problem. A remarkable success, if not for the reality that they'd lost it all before Gail had even arrived. What difference did their performance make now?

Gail leaned against the row of elevators at the back of the hall, his gaze fixed on the second lieutenant while she spoke to two squad leaders. It was something of a relief, he had to admit, to be able to stand back and speak only to one reliable subordinate, rather than dealing with many more and their inevitable idiosyncrasies. He'd spoken to the major commanding the outer defences, an uninspiring man who'd nonetheless competently defended all six outer walls and both side entrances. He refused to leave those walls, of course, until someone else secured the interior.

Lyra returned, rubbing the back of her neck and grimacing. "First and third squad confirm it, sir. We're in complete control of the main building and the plaza outside. Medical teams have finally been cleared to enter and second squad tells me General Hereson has been in contact with the capital for most of the last hour. Reinforcements from the northern base are nearly here. Looks like we've done it, don't you think?"

Gail resisted the urge to scowl in response to her nervous smile. "We've done it, but our job was the easy part. It's only going to get harder from here."

He had a singular talent for taking happy people and giving them reason to be miserable. Still, her sense of relief was too strong and his words too mild.

"Oh, there's one more thing," she said, breaking the growing silence. "We really didn't find all that many people who didn't evacuate, but we found two on the fourth floor with Director Roltin. Well, her corpse. Knife through the spinal cord, bullet through the head, so we locked them up, although second squad's leader said one of them was pretty important."

Fourth floor? "Why would anyone be there—"he began to say, pausing when he recalled the significance of that floor. "Were they in Royce's offices?"

Lyra nodded, slightly surprised at his guess. "I mentioned it because they asked for you by name. And… well, nobody knows your name. So I was a little surprised. We're pretty busy, so I can't really get any more information yet."

"I'll go myself."

"Sir?"

"This is important. Trust me." He checked his wrist communicator and glanced back at her. "You're in command for now. Contact me for anything significant. The rest should be easy enough." He turned back to the elevators without another thought, feeling her even more confused stare burning into the back of his skull. Gail wasn't concerned. Most people, he'd found, were far more capable than they believed they were and she was no exception.

Both elevator doors opened with a slight groan revealing the darkened hall of the fourth floor's offices. Its main corridor, lined with elegantly carved doors and expensive carpeting, was all but abandoned. Gail approached the office at the far end, the entire world falling silent as he entered the maze of offices. Ever since Royce's excursion to Ibis Island this section of the floor had been abandoned.

A tiled reception area at the end was being watched by two masked and armoured soldiers, one sitting on the desk, the other leaning on the wall. Both jumped up in surprise at his arrival, one launching into a rushed explanation of the situation to make up for, or simply hide, his unprofessional conduct. Two dead guards, both riddled with bullets, had been dragged to one corner. Faced with nothing but death and misery for two decades, it was becoming easier to sympathise with Regina's apparent decision to leave the military.

At the sound of his voice someone knocked on the other side of the door. "Hey, Gail, is that you? Tell these bastards to let us out of here, would you? We didn't kill anybody."

Of course. Their approach to security was commendable, refusing to allow even the general's assistant to leave. He gave the order and they followed it; neither looked particularly comfortable with the situation.

It was a grim scene. An enormous woman's corpse lay in a pool of blood before the row of desks that previously belonged to Royce's staff, a small knife sticking out of her ruined back. At one side of the door stood Richard Morrent, decidedly less composed than usual. His expression was anxious, even panicked, eyes darting around the room and focusing on nothing.

"It's good you're here. It's amazing we're still alive, you know that? All this authority and they just ignored me. What's going on out there?" Richard said, taking a step closer.

"Nothing pleasant. My men have taken control of the main building, and reinforcements are on the way," Gail replied, keeping his voice emotionless. "Tell me what happened." He looked around, trying to conceal his own anxiety, before seeing the shadowy figure near the window. So she had survived.

"We were up here when it happened. They killed Vorman and just didn't stop shooting. The crowd, the guards, everyone. I can't get it out of my head," Richard said, continuing for some time in an aimless rant that continued several valuable pieces of information.

"And then _she_ showed up with that bastard Mirzin. Never trusted him. I don't know what they wanted, but we were in the wrong place. Actually showing up to the scene of the crime in person? Who does that?" He was genuinely terrified, never having seen violence on this scale in his life, and collapsed into a chair with his head in his hands supressing a shudder more than once.

"I have a message for you," a softer, calmer voice said. Miranda approached from the window, far less hysterical than would be normal in such circumstances, and he nearly sighed in relief. He hadn't failed her, at least. At this point losing anything else would be intolerable. How much more was he expected to sacrifice? Was it ever enough?

"She said, _'I could've killed her, but I didn't. You nearly lost everything, and you'll lose more if you don't learn not to interfere with the affairs of others'_," Miranda recited in her dry tone, making a passable imitation of his adversary in doing so.

Something in his chest tightened at the realisation. Both of the people he'd attempted to help, to keep safe, had been at Anders' mercy in one night, and she wanted him to know it.

"She's wrong. I've lost nothing. Not this time."

"No? I'm glad to hear it. Not many people can say that, I think," Miranda murmured, slowly glancing back at the window. "You remember under Ibis Island? She was different this time. Energetic, even talkative. We spoke for a while, but that woman said the wrong thing and got stabbed."

Energetic was a worrying sign, in his experience. A brief call from Lyra interrupted his thoughts; she reported that a colonel from the northern base had arrived to take command of the defence and was approaching the underground section even as they spoke. She sounded more relieved than anything, though he was impressed by her ability. After sharing the unpleasant news that Anders had been there in person, he returned his attention two of the last people to know and appreciate him, even if he hadn't been there when they needed him.

"Tell me everything you can." he said, gesturing at the empty seats. Both of them grimaced in unison as he did so. "In return I'll tell you everything I know, and we'll find a way out of this."

Their recounting of the situation was enough to make him scowl involuntarily, even before the encounter with Anders. It was far too familiar. How could he condemn her tactics with any sincerity, having participated in similar atrocities himself? The ceremonial guards weren't even following orders; they'd joined Anders willingly, butchered their leaders eagerly. It was a deception, but the act itself validated her ideology, more than could ever be said for what he and so many others had done to the Borginians.

Curiously, he noted, Miranda took it upon herself to do the explaining. Even though he wasn't particularly surprised by her indifference—it was, after all, her reaction to almost everything—it was unusual enough to distract him. Half of Richard's work involved explaining, and now he could barely look at either of them. Was there something they were hiding, or was he simply traumatised by the overwhelming violence of the night?

For a short time they remained in Royce's office, unwilling to even suggest leaving. Reinforcements from the northern colonel's unit arrived eventually, checking their identification and leaving once satisfied the floor was secured.

"Does this mean they've actually rebelled? Openly, I mean," Miranda asked, murmuring the question with her eyes fixed on the director's corpse.

How could he answer that? "Depends on the public's response. If they riot, they're is going to have to make a move or lose the opportunity entirely." There. A simple, conservative answer.

Not enough, of course. She was too inquisitive. "Do you think they will?"

No lying. "I do. Whether Royce wants to or not is irrelevant. We were barely holding back a revolt even before this; now it's inevitable."

She nodded, completely unaffected. Richard's eyes widened, but he still refused to speak.

"What about her? If she forced him into this, doesn't that make them…? I don't know," she continued, a hint of confusion creeping into her dry voice.

He didn't know either. "It means they'll never trust each other again. That might be our only advantage. Royce lost his stomach for this," Gail said, abruptly waving at the window and the grim view, "a long time ago. He would never have chosen this route. He's got the army, but that doesn't mean he's got what it takes it pull this off."

"Excellent analysis. You're proving yourself more useful with each day, you know, and such good timing to arrive when you did," a familiar voice said from the offices' entrance, and Gail's entire body stiffened with recognition.

He stood up and twisted around in a single moment, throwing an official salute to greet General Hereson. The older man stared with an amused smile at his haste, a masked guard on one side and Second Lieutenant Ackerman on the other, her eyes wide with surprise and one hand raised in an awkward wave.

"Relax. Formalities are the last thing I care about. They tell me you took personal command of our pitiful relief forces and took back the main building personally. An impressive feat, you must realise, and you both have my personal thanks. After half our garrison defected all at once your loyalty is even more admirable," Hereson said, hiding the dejection he must have felt with moderate success.

The general's sharp eyes swept the room, focusing on each of them for a moment and ignoring the director's corpse entirely. An unpopular woman, no doubt, even among her own allies.

"From my position in the underground command centre I've been rather busy. Suffice to say we've been outmanoeuvred. They seized the state broadcasting station before attacking and ensured only the most incriminating footage was released," Hereson said with a shrug and a grimace. He looked older than he had when they'd first met, Gail realised with some discomfort. The news wasn't unexpected; it's what he'd have done in her place.

"Our command structure is also in shambles, you know. The military leaders in the front row were unharmed, but many important officials were targeted, not least of all the director here," he continued pointing flatly at the corpse in the centre of the room. "No doubt they'll all say we meant to do that to complete our economic takeover or some such nonsense."

This was turning into a grim meeting, and he'd only been there three minutes. Other than himself, only Miranda seemed unaffected, the two of them sharing the same blank expression.

"All this to say I've given to order to start assembling our armies, but only in secret. To do so publicly now would be a mistake. We've really been put in a difficult position. I'd respect the strategy if only it weren't directed at me."

The general continued for some time, taking an empty seat only to point out every mistake they'd made and every loss they'd suffered. His personal guard followed loyally but the relative unimportance of his guests seemed entirely unimportant to Hereson, who claimed to have delegated clean-up to his subordinates.

"Do we have any advantages at all?" Gail finally asked, desperate to lighten the increasingly morbid mood.

"You pointed it out when I arrived, didn't you? Those dear friends Anton and Eliza, how I loathe them, will never trust each other again, even if they are still allies—and they may not be. She won't risk returning to their base on that miserable island now, which gives us an opportunity."

They spoke for some time, the general asking for input from all of them. He claimed to want his plan examined from a variety of perspectives; even his guardsmen and Miranda were invited to comment. Most of it was vague, a plan oriented to avoiding even further setbacks rather than chasing victory. Until they had more information there was little else that could be done.

"… Until they make their move we'll focus on damage control and preparation. Command of our armies won't be your concern, hopefully not anyone's concern. It occurs to me that this is a rather unusual ploy for power," the general said, resting his hands on the table and staring at Gail directly.

"By that I mean I'm not convinced that we understand our enemies. Eliza has always been unpredictable, no matter how well she concealed it. As for the others? The list of suspects still hidden in the city? The others from the report you made after the diplomatic mission to Ibis Island? Your old student, a renegade group under this Harper character, a northerner. Edward Kirk, who Anton tried to carefully to conceal from me for reasons I still don't fully understand." Hereson was beginning to sound genuinely frustrated, and ran a hand through his thin hair to make that even more obvious.

"It's too much. These people are involved and we all know it. I'm putting you," he stated in a particularly assertive voice with a finger pointed at Gail, "in charge of solving this problem. Consider this something of a promotion, if you like. I'm running low on people I can trust, and you're connected to every last person of any significance in this affair. If you hadn't returned when you did I might have added you to the list, you realise."

"See, I told you? Secret police," Richard whispered to the woman on his right, attracting the entire room's attention.

"Call it what you like. You'll report directly to me, because I don't trust my subordinates. Focus on the leadership of both Anton and Eliza's groups as well as anyone connected to them. Information is your first priority. How they're organised, what they intend to do, how their allegiances have changed. You can be sure they know more about us than we know about them. That has to change."

After that all that was left were the details. From the commander of a team of agents to a special advisor to one of the most powerful men in the land, all within a few months. He wasn't even surprised. The core of this conflict, at least in Hereson's eyes, was simply a contest between himself and his two adversaries. The citizens, the soldiers: they were all faceless pawns. Gail had risen to prominence and been granted status and power to match his importance in their leader's eyes. Rules, regulations, traditions: all were discarded as utterly insignificant.

Four days passed in which they were confined to the command centre. Civil unrest was worsening by the day, as they could all see from the outer walls. Riots, general strikes, attacks on military personnel: it had finally begun in full. Gail's thoughts often turned to the people he'd abandoned to return to western command. The price for his cooperation had been an agreement. Kirk would stay out of this conflict, and the implicit end of that statement was that he'd ensure the rest of them would do the same. Regina would be in no condition to fight, and even if she was: what would they fight for? They were entirely alone.

And still it seemed wrong. He stood alone on the outer wall facing the western coast, eyes fixed on the enormous industrial zones below. After all he'd learned, it was as the general said. There was something missing, something they hadn't been told. Why would, given Harper's history, he ever have assaulted Ibis Island alone knowing both Royce and Anders were waiting there? To risk everything to recover two devices, devices they couldn't even use, with functionality that he shouldn't have even understood.

Gail inhaled sharply and averted his gaze from the city, realising he simply hadn't wanted to admit the truth. It was easier to believe it couldn't be true. Kirk's research could only be of any valuable if it was functional. They'd needed those devices, which meant they could be put to use. Could the Third Energy be ready for use as a weapon? Was that the secret?

"Sir? We're ready now. Permission to enter the city has been granted," said a soft voice to his left. The marble plaza below had been cleared and cleaned, but it made no difference. The white stone had been stained, and there was nothing to be done about it now.

Freshly promoted Captain Lyra Ackerman, raised two ranks without much more than a moment's thought, was waiting with two of her soldiers. After their display of loyalty the general had placed her and four platoons under Gail's direct command. Miranda was waiting with them, he noticed with some surprise, her ill-fitting black coat billowing in the heavy wind.

Her pale, emaciated figure was an accurate depiction of how they'd all felt for far too long. The strain of being who he was supposed to be, of wearing that uniform and holding these people together day after day, was beginning to take its toll.

"Why now?" he asked, knowing the answer would be more bad news. If there was any hope for them now it was beyond his ability to see. After so many years all he'd seen, all he'd done; it never stopped. So many dead, so many lives ruined, and all for what? They maintained the system, and the system maintained the slaughter. It was all too easy to sympathise with Royce's desire for change, and it always had been, but he knew it was a false hope. Royce knew it himself, Gail suspected. Why else would he have had to be forced into making his move?

"Well, it's just…" Lyra's nervous words were hardly befitting of a captain, and he told her so. They didn't have the luxury of weakness.

"Southern command has seceded, sir," she murmured, trying and failing to adopt a professional tone.

Those words all had a distinct meaning, but when she put them together in that order something seemed terribly wrong. "Repeat, no, clarify your meaning."

"It's pretty straightforward, isn't it? We received the update half an hour ago. The garrison in Polostin refused to hold back the rioters two nights back and the military lost control. Someone in central told them to kill the protestors if they had to, and the soldiers wouldn't do it. Now they're trying to keep their power by refusing to obey any orders from central or western command, claiming to be independent until a full inquiry into our actions is complete."

She shrugged helplessly. "They've invited militia leaders to hold talks, too, and hinted at inviting Colonel Royce's armies to their territory if we don't do… I don't know, something."

He was at a complete loss for words. Backlash was only to be expected. This was a premature decision, surely, or else she was exaggerating. "Why would they—"

"Don't you get it? Their armies won't fight for us anymore. They won't even send us fuel. If they didn't do this they'd have all been killed, or maybe they worked it all out months ago. What does it even matter?" Anger and despair. If she felt this way, the rest of them were all but certainly in the same position.

Southern command was small, mostly an agricultural region in truth. The western districts had absorbed much of their territory during Hereson's administration, something that likely contributed to their decision. It was a severe blow but not a mortal one. Or so they all told themselves.

"It doesn't change anything. We'll continue as planned, you understand? Don't tell me you're having second thoughts now."

"It does change things," Miranda murmured, standing perilously close to the edge of the wall. "They're letting you into the city because they're desperate. I think we might have picked the losing side."

It would've been so convenient if once, just once, she'd held herself back from voicing what they were all thinking. Even Regina had more tact than this woman. Gail took a step to the left and pulled her away from the edge.

"On second thought, maybe every side is the losing side. I thought Eliza would be happier than she was, you know, but I guess that makes sense," she added, as if purely to spite him.

"Why wouldn't she have been happy? It all went to plan, right? One night and we're completely fucked," Lyra asked, still lacking even a hint of her previous vibrancy. It was happening all over again. Five years and he'd eventually given up on trying to control his SORT team's idiosyncrasies. This time he hadn't managed a week before conceding defeat. That was a poor way to frame the issue, he knew: better their thoughts be expressed than concealed until they became actual issues.

"It's irrelevant. We'll have intelligence determine who's behind the southern defection. Until then forget it, understood? We've know what we have to do, and that's not going to change," Gail said, his firm voice leaving no room for further interruption.

"And how are we going to do that? We don't know where she is, or who she's with, or even what she might want next. Has she ever been beaten by anyone?" Another blunt assessment, though more true than he'd like to admit.

Truthfully he didn't want to tell them. Didn't want to admit it even to himself. The one remaining connection he had to their adversary, the one lead that might yield results, would mean dragging Regina back into the life she'd so nearly managed to escape, and for what?

Not only that, it would force him to admit something else. Why had Anders considered them so threatening? How could the four of them ever have interfered with her plan even if they'd anticipated it? By telling the military? They'd already anticipated an attack. The ceremonial guards responsible for preventing it were the actual threat, and they'd never have had the information to foresee that outcome. For her to go to so much effort to mitigate so small a risk…

"As the general said, we're missing a key piece of information. The revolts, the armies, even Royce. They're not our problem," Gail finally said, looking between the two of them. "There's someone we need to find. Someone I suspect she's going to be looking for even now."

"Is it that man she looked like she was trying to kill but actually wanted alive?" Miranda asked in a monotone, referencing one of the more interesting details she'd extracted during her conversation with Anders.

"No, but they'll be together. I've never believed in coincidences, and I'm not going to start now. You've both read the files from Ibis Island. Royce's first move was to capture it, but the guy running their research program escaped. Our assumption has always been that the project was unusable. If that assumption is wrong, and let's face it: all our assumptions have been wrong, finding them is the only goal worth anyone's time."

"So you've actually got a plan? Great. Tell me what to do so I can stop thinking for a while." Lyra's blunt statement was something he could have said for more years than he wanted to admit. If only it was that easy.

"Well, they contacted you, right? Was the snarky one with the blonde hair the researcher? And didn't you meet them the other night? I thought you might have, but then she told me you were a having a reunion with some old friends and confirmed it, even mentioned him by name," Miranda said, mumbling the words as if she hadn't just guessed everything he hadn't quite been ready to tell them.

"It won't be as easy this time. They'll be avoiding attention from the military, and we'll be searching in the west. That means dealing with open rebellion, and it means we can't be seen in uniform or rely on the military's support. "

"Who cares? I don't want to be here when they try to storm the gate, I'll tell you that much. When do we start?"

The bright blue sky above painted the city in an uncomfortably optimistic light. It was hard to believe the riots below were happening, that an entire command district had declared itself independent. Gail knew from experience; they were on the precipice. Even if it was hopeless, if there was nothing he could do to stop what was coming, at least he could do this. That would have to be enough.

"What kind of question is that? We're starting now. Prepare your men for scouting missions in the industrial area. We'll be working on a plan while they investigate. I want results by the end of the week," Gail said, leaving no room for argument.

They needed him to be a leader, to show them the right direction, regardless of how uncertain he was in truth. Was that deception? The illusion of direction was the last thing holding them together. How could he justify taking that from them?


	21. Chapter 21

There were times when the prospect of an ordinary life was an appealing notion. It was an impossible fantasy, something that he could never achieve, never even desire in truth. Did they suffer as he had? It was easy to believe they didn't, that the faceless crowds were barely human, but the last week had revealed those impressions for the conceited lies they were.

Merestan's streets were in total disarray. The military checkpoints had, for the most part, been abandoned in all but the most important sections of the city. Riots, unrest, enormous protests, and even armed resistance showed than the average citizen, as he thought of them, was more than willing to show how deeply they had suffered.

Leaning on a brick wall outside one of the few open stores in the western residential area, Edward Kirk watched with interest as an organised group of citizens coordinated a patrol group. The military had been given a choice: leave peacefully or use force to maintain control. They'd chosen to withdraw, at least for now, and it was undoubtedly the only intelligent choice.

He heard them speaking as he walked the streets. They all had so much hope that the military would side with them, that they could rely on Anton Royce to do what he'd always claimed he would and lead them to victory. It was enough to bring to a sneer to his face. Relying on one man for their salvation. It was pathetic. Others, however, were far more willing to lead in his place, and there was something admirable in that.

None of them even realised they were simply playing a part in someone else's game. When the time came to make his move and lead Royce had stumbled, told himself it would be enough to reform without the misery of revolution. Kirk knew better, and he knew self-deception when he saw it. Eliza Anders understood this and she was undoubtedly punishing the colonel for his imagined transgressions. It was what he would have done in her place, and the realisation made him uncomfortable.

"Hey, wake up. I bought most of it, let's get out of here," a soft voice whispered in his ear. Blinking rapidly, he saw the voice made a good point. The crowd was growing with each passing minute.

"Nobody following you?" he asked, turning to leave for the least busy direction.

"Don't be paranoid. Everyone's too busy to care about us," she replied, a hint of admonishment in her calm voice.

It was difficult not to be paranoid. Only a week had passed since his ridiculous scheme to thwart Anders' supposed hostage exchange plot had been put into action. Given her history Jane should have understood the risk just as well as he did, unless she was simply hiding her fear.

The two of them had the unfortunate task of purchasing supplies. Regina was too injured and Harper was so irritable and sullen that they hadn't asked, but he was potentially in more danger than the rest of them to begin with. Living in a warehouse was difficult, but they had few other options. Leaving the city would be next to impossible, and it wasn't as if they had anywhere to go. Fortunately most of the violence was centred on the more affluent or influential parts of the city; for the most part the streets were clear of corpses, the western districts' residents showing unusual solidarity in their cause.

"They tripled the price of medical equipment because of the riots, you know. How disgusting," Jane said, making idle conversation. The price was fairly inconsequential, given Harpers' grudging admission that he and Anders had siphoned off military funding for their own purposes for years, giving them more than enough money to stay alive, at the very least.

"Idiots. These people would sell rope to their own executioner, wouldn't they?" he replied, taking a careful look back before turning a corner. How was he supposed to know if he was being followed?

"Doesn't this city import its food from the south? Maybe that's why everything's more expensive," she said, motioning at him to follow.

"I've never been any further south than here, so I don't know. If they've stopped exporting it's even more obvious that they're lost control of an entire district without so much as a fight," he said, ignoring his surroundings once again while she did the work. Jane nodded, again remaining silent.

As they approached the industrial area, free from the incessant sounds of machinery at work due to a long series of general strikes, it was hard to reconcile his growing sense of hopelessness with the reality that for the first time in years the feeling of weight in his chest had grown lighter. He, along with so many others, was quite likely to be dead by the end of the year, but he felt more alive now than he had for far too long.

Even the woman next to him, calm and soft-spoken and dangerous as she could be, treated him as if he were her friend, and it was growing harder to ignore the reality that perhaps he actually did have relationships based on more than mutual need for what must have been the first time in his life.

"Nobody's following us today either. We'll head straight back, alright?" she said, calm as ever. All this stealth made him uncomfortable. They knew what they were doing; as far as he could tell, both she and Harper had been forced to learn these survival skills well before adulthood.

He nodded, though Jane was too busy looking at a small crowd of workers on the other side of the street to notice. Two of them stared back and she pulled her long coat even tighter, immediately looking away. He was never going to get used to that. Dealing with Regina was easier even if her personality was much more abrupt; nothing had ever broken her composure in his experience, and if a protracted torture session wasn't going to do it he didn't know what would.

A surprisingly forceful breeze greeted them as they emerged onto the side road concealing their makeshift hideout. The warm blue sky and unexpectedly hot wind felt entirely wrong, though the citizens' militia members filling the streets looked to appreciate the comfortable weather.

It was only after Jane made her final assessment of their surroundings and unlocked the side door that he realised he'd let her carry three heavy bags for twenty minutes without offering to assist.

"… Not going to have the luxury of waiting forever, and we both know it even—"

Entering the dusty warehouse and blinking once or twice to adjust to the light, and then again to adjust to the sight before him, he stopped abruptly in the doorway and felt Jane's head hit the back of his with a sharp crack. The speaker's words were far louder than the background noise of the state channel emanating from an old television precariously sitting on a crate.

Regina was reclining on their poor excuse for a couch listening to a clearly agitated Harper. He stopped mid-sentence, staring at them both.

"Don't feel obligated to stop on my account," Edward said while they entered, Jane hastily dumping a few days' supplies on the floor. A twitch of irritation on Harper's face hinted that he'd been slightly too scornful with those words, but it was hard to care.

"It's nothing important, just forget it," Regina said with enough finality to close the issue. Neither of them pressed the issue.

"Streets still full of rioters?" she asked, making an obvious attempt to ease the tension.

"More or less. The military's completely withdrawn from this area. Whether that's a good thing or not, who can say?"

"I can," Harper said. "Anything that hurts the military is fine by me. They're tearing themselves apart. We should keep the momentum going before they all get bored and go home."

Regina groaned loudly and stared at the ceiling, as exasperated as he'd ever seen her. "You need to give it a rest."

Edward looked from her, calm and collected, to the man she was addressing. When his façade had finally cracked none of them had expected the change to be so permanent.

"You've indirectly complimented your enemy, you realise? Not that I expect you forgot that. Odds are she's behind this mess in the south too. You know, in our last conversation she told me to tell you she's still going to 'do it', whatever that means," he said, restraining the urge to resort to sarcasm.

"And I haven't forgotten your promise either. Easy enough to agree to help us crush them when you wanted help rescuing her,' Harper said, pointing sharply at Regina, "but now that it's done you're a pacifist. I assumed you were lying when you told that military bastard you'd stay out of this, but apparently not."

The harshness in his voice went beyond anger, approaching resentment. How was he supposed to respond when the accusation was entirely correct? He'd told both Harper and Gail what they'd wanted to hear so they'd ignore their distrust and do as he wanted. Simply ignoring the issue entirely wasn't proving as effective a stratagem as he'd hoped.

Lying. That was the best option. He shrugged. "How do you expect me to help you? We're in hiding and entirely powerless. Even if we weren't, between the military, Royce's armies, and whatever Anders is doing, we'd be exposing ourselves to far too much risk for no reward."

"You're the worst liar I ever met, Kirk. You think I don't know when someone's lying? I didn't get half my friends killed stealing those devices just so you can sit here and tell me you've changed your mind," Harper said, taking a step forward, his expression losing any semblance of neutrality.

"What do you want me to do? Even if the Third Energy was functional, and even if we did control a generator, destroying the military is what Anders wants, and I'm not going to do anything that helps her. Are you?" Kirk replied, holding his ground. Harper was intimidating, but he'd never been prone to unprovoked violence just because a conversation went the wrong way.

"Just what do you think you're implying?" Harper asked. He took an almost unconscious step forward, his jaw clenched with clear anger. A firm hand on Harper's upper arm came as a welcome distraction, and the man turned sharply to see Jane holding him back. For once she did look troubled.

"Come on, we're going outside. You've said enough," she said, and to their surprise Harper followed without argument, his harsh features softening as she spoke.

The door slammed shut behind them and Regina exhaled sharply, sinking back in the seat. "That was getting bad. I thought you'd figured this out by now, but some people respond _really_ badly to that approach. Even if you weren't lying, and I know you were."

Of course, she'd known for too long. Known ever while held captive. "You're right. I think I knew it, but I couldn't stop myself."

Regina snorted derisively and shifted to one side. The sight of her right hand was still off-putting. Sometimes he thought it bothered him more than it did her.

"Just remember," she said, throwing her right arm over the side of the couch, "if you pick a fight with him now I'm in no shape to get you out of it. It's a good thing she can calm him down. You're always picking fights with the wrong people, you ever realise that?"

He took the seat next to her, still oddly uncomfortable with their proximity. More so with the ordinariness of the situation, in truth.

"So you said you'd help him get revenge in return for what? And Gail? Where'd all this diplomacy come from, 'cause I'm having a hard time seeing it," she continued, raising an eyebrow. He couldn't help but notice her black hair dye was fading, revealing a more natural shade of red underneath.

"You're that oblivious? I said it so they'd help me pull you out of that mess, a mess you could have avoided if you weren't so overconfident."

"Yeah, I knew that, just wanted to make you admit it. Sorry."

"Never satisfied, are you?"

"Is anyone?" She waved her left hand dismissively, grimacing slightly. "That's a lie. Like I said, I'm grateful. I'm used to being expendable, to tell you the truth."

"Why would anyone ever join the military? It was a blunt, abrupt question, but something he'd genuinely wanted to know for more years than he could count. Becoming a disposable tool for society's elite had little appeal, despite how close he'd edged to that fate.

Regina shrugged and looked over at him directly. "Why does anyone do anything? They think it'll be worthwhile. Nice uniform, better salary, and it feels like you're actually contributing to something."

"Did you know?" He pointed flatly at the door, hoping she'd take the hint.

"Not really. I knew there were things a lot of the older veterans and officers wouldn't talk about. Gail never spoke about his early years, so we guessed it wasn't good. Anders told me, you know. Everything they'd done, all the messed up little details she could remember."

Regina scowled, losing her cheerfulness for a moment. "After all that, I even told her I was done with the military. Not taking another order without reason, you know? Not long after that she cut my finger off. Said it was your fault for being a liar, but I could swear she thought it would help me in her own sick way."

"He's fine with that change in priority. Or he said he was."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "You're being vague again. Who? Harper? Why should he care?"

"Your old boss. Gail," Kirk replied with a slight twitch. He'd never liked saying names directly.

She managed a short laugh but couldn't quite conceal her surprise. "I thought he'd want to bring me in for questioning. I wasn't sure whether I was more surprised to see you or him that night. Always knew he had a soft spot somewhere."

They fell silent for a moment, the silence only broken by the warehouse's industrial fans softly rotating and the murmuring voices on the state channel.

"I don't know if you're the one to ask," Regina finally said, a slight, almost imperceptible, hint of hesitation in her voice, "but what happens to us next? It's not that I mind taking a break, but someone's going to come looking sooner or later."

It was a question he'd wanted to avoid, in truth. With her, himself, or anyone. Ever since their first meeting after Ibis Island they'd relied on Harper to dictate their course of action. Now it was hard to say. If Regina was asking that she understood more than he'd realised.

He remained silent to buy time for thought, her intense stare making that especially difficult.

"I don't know. You want honesty, and there it is. If we do what Harper wants I think all four of us will be dead by the end of the year. He'd like that, I can see it in his eyes. One last moment of reprisal and then it's over."

"I don't think I can do it," he continued, leaning forward and running an agitated hand through his hair. "I thought I knew how to be callous. In hindsight all I can see is misplaced pride. You saw what's she's like. How do I stop someone like that? How can anyone?"

"You find out what she's really like under that mask. Same as I did with you, and you did with me. Everyone's hiding something," Regina replied, making it clear she'd hoped he'd have come to the same conclusion by now. "Or you hide until this is done. I don't think there's much middle ground anymore."

"You make it sound so easy," he objected, waving one arm dismissively, which she caught in her left hand and squeezed.

"Not easy. I stopped trying to ignore hard truths a long time ago. Surprised you haven't, all things considered. Maybe that's why she outsmarted you."

Releasing his arm, Regina leaned forward and groaned again. "I hate having to ask, but could you help change these bandages? I've been putting it off for too long, and I don't want to ask Jane again."

Momentarily taken aback, Edward stared in surprise. "Why not? I can do it, of course. An infection would be inconvenient at a time like this."

Regina reached for a medical kit by the side and the couch and threw it at him. "I can tell it makes her uncomfortable, that's all. I saw her scars. You try having your arm carved apart just once, it's not something I'd recommend. At least I avoided the worst of it."

This obliviousness to obvious truths was becoming frustrating. Opting for silence, he set to work carefully unravelling the mass of bandages covering her left arm from the wrist to the shoulder, grimacing at the mess underneath. Not for the first time he noticed her extraordinary physical condition, the lean muscle under her ruined skin visible with the slightest movement.

"Less staring, more working. Doctor Kirk, that's what they called you. Live up to your title."

He didn't fall for the obvious bait, at least, but reached for the fresh roll of bandages with a slight smile. Her sense of humour was appealing, able to make light of even the darkest situations with ease.

"What do you mean, the worst of it?" It was something he'd wondered ever since seeing her chained to that chair.

For once her expression darkened, and the muscles in her arm stiffened involuntarily. "You know as well as I do. It could have happened, but it didn't. Not everyone on Anders' side is a sociopath, I learned that much." She fell silent for a moment, visibly altered her grim look with effort, and looked back at him. "Keep going. You've still got to do my leg after this, if you can be bothered. I really hate being so useless."

Finishing his work with more skill than either of them had expected, Regina lowered her arm, fell back on the seat and stretched her long leg out with a slight frown. "Thanks. Shouldn't need these for much longer. Only a few of the cuts were deep, but that—"

She broke off as the door opened again, reaching down with her freshly bandaged. To Edward's surprise, he realised she still kept a pistol within reach. A prudent measure, something he hadn't considered. Intellectual details were one thing, but he'd only ever skilfully dealt with the physical world in an abstract, scientific sense.

"Don't mind me," said Jane's listless voice, staring at the state broadcast while she closed the door. As always they were broadcasting what might as well be blatant propaganda. He heard her approach, likely drawn by well-founded doubts about his medical skills.

The bandaging, centred on the wound just above her knee, showed signs of recent bleeding. Clearly she'd been moving too much even though it seemed to be healing well otherwise, as Jane confirmed with some examination.

"This is so uncomfortable, you know that?" Regina muttered, looking back at the ceiling. "Hey, why'd you come back alone?"

He was certain a flicker of annoyance flashed across Jane's face, but it was gone as quickly as it'd arrived. "He's going out for a while. What do you expect after saying something like that?"

"Was I wrong?" It was a poor choice to continue this argument. "Once we've annihilated anyone powerful enough to hold this country together he's got no interest in what happens next. Even if I agreed, the first move we make and they'll find us."

"You promised you'd help. You knew what that meant and you still agreed. Now you're not going to do it." Her words were free from accusation, simply stating an undeniable truth. Somehow it was harder to hear her calm statement of fact than any of Harper's intense accusations.

"And you disapprove, I suppose?"

Finished, she returned the medical kit to its place and shrugged. "I understand. It might be best to do nothing. Not sure yet." Once again she was using every tool in her power, from her controlled voice to the long hair masking her face, to hide her actual thoughts. "I can say that lying to him isn't going to end well. You're a little like her, you know? Not too much, but enough."

"She's got a point. Remember Ibis Island and all that ranting you did? Anders did that too, and she even does that other thing you do. You know, pretending to be all cold inside and letting it out in bursts of weirdness," Regina said, an insolent smirk growing with each word. At least one of them wasn't taking it seriously. "Come to think of it, if you don't get a haircut soon you'll look a bit like her. Bony face, unhealthily thin… not much chest..." She broke off after eliciting a rare spurt of laughter from Jane and leaned back with a satisfied smile.

"When you have as much to think about as I do such worldly matters as haircuts are easily forgotten. You wouldn't understand, of course," Edward replied, feigning complete and even melodramatic seriousness. He stood and stretched to loosen the stiffness in his shoulders. Her comparison, amusing or not, was enough to make him uncomfortable.

"Hey, you two give it a rest for a minute would you? Something's happening," Jane said, sitting on the couch's armrest and pointing at the broadcast. Regina's stare told him wasn't quite finished with him yet. That could be entertaining, at least.

"On the state channel? I've been watching this for days. Nothing's ever happening," Regina said, but she leaned forward again to take a look anyway.

For once, however, Edward was surprised to see she was mistaken. His last encounter with the state channel had been while a captive, forced to watch a dual speech held by Hereson and Royce, the latter's words filled with thinly veiled insubordination, the former nothing but inconsequential lies.

"… showing a second live broadcast from Polostin's southern command centre. A repeat of our first interview with Polostin's military leadership will be shown at six this evening. After the district's stunning decision to declare itself independent only three days ago, we've been given permission to broadcast certain footage as a direct response to the military's decision to reposition artillery within firing range of Polostin's outer residential area," a blonde newscaster said, masking any emotion with her carefully monitored professionalism.

"After the stunt they pulled during the massacre this ought to be interesting," Regina said, making an attempt to stand up and pulling back, obviously frustrated.

Not that she was wrong. The displayed footage had been nothing short of gruesome, showcasing the worst examples of brutality, as if they'd wanted to paint the military in as poor a light as possible. Nobody believed their attempts to claim rebellion in the ranks had been to blame, even though it was almost certainly true. If the rumours were true up to half the garrison had defected, something he'd usually have found hilarious.

A wide shot of a similar fortress to the western command centre was shown, though this one was built on level ground, placed on the outskirts of a smaller city. The fields of crops and grassy plains would've been tranquil under normal circumstances, but a heavy military presence ruined the effect entirely.

The newscaster continued speaking, giving all the required context with the usual bias, though again: the military was portrayed in an ever so slightly negative manner.

"I don't recognise any of these people," he announced, an indirect way of telling them both that the various officers and officials responsible for the secession couldn't possibly be of importance. Regina was quickly losing interest, opting to pull at the bandages on her arm instead.

"I do. See in the back? Past the military guys, standing by the exit." Jane murmured, glancing over to see if he was listening. Both of them looked up immediately, scanning the scene. A mass of blue-uniformed officers were speaking to representatives from the western and central districts while the media waited respectfully in the back.

A sharp gasp from his right was enough to confirm something was wrong. Regina stood up, ignoring the pain, and knelt down next to the screen.

"That doesn't make any sense. Not any, you understand?" This was new. A hint of anxiety, uncertainty, in her almost permanently relaxed voice.

The two by the rear exit looked to be waiting for something, one a man in a vaguely formal outfit, the other a foreign woman in a short black dress. The camera was positioned to show every person in the comfortably appointed, almost rustic, meeting room.

"This is bad. Or maybe it's not, I don't know," Regina said, looking back at them for only a second. "Kirk, you have to remember. The third member of our team on Ibis Island? You met him at the heliport. That's him. I'd recognise him anywhere. I always wondered what happened… but that can't be right."

"She's a Borginian official," Jane murmured. Neither of them questioned her.

Truthfully he'd all but forgotten the man. Without Gail's frustrating persistence and threatening demeanour or Regina's far more interesting personality the man, Rick, was it, had been deemed uninteresting.

The interview continued without pause. For them to be allowed in the same room as the command staff and elected officials of the southern district, well, he could only see one real explanation. An enormous man, taller than anyone he'd ever met, separated from the media staff's group and approached them both.

Regina burst into laughter and covered her face with the palm of her hand. There was an uncomfortable edge to the sound. "I get it. This is the real show, not the interview. Is this for our benefit? That guy, the one pretending to be from the media? He runs the Borginian militia they've been so busy trying to stop. I'm barely even surprised."

"How do you know?"

More laughter, even harsher than before. Something was undoubtedly wrong this time, and he didn't know how to handle it. "Because he was right there with Anders when they cut me apart. Told me his whole life story. Now he's meeting Rick? What happened to us, can one of you tell me? When did it all turn to shit? I just can't remember anymore."

"Don't assume anything." It was poor advice, but what else was he supposed to say? It wasn't hard to make the obvious connections.

"What a joke, hearing that from you," Regina shot back, standing up despite the difficulty. "Don't pretend you don't see it either."

The screen turned black before he could answer, and so did the warehouse's interior. Fortunate timing, considering neither he nor Regina ever refused the chance to argue, but a muffled boom several blocks down was enough to replace his sense of relief with anxiety.

"You two argue too much," Jane whispered, staring out the half-open shutter. "I don't know what's happening, but there are people on the streets again." Regina limped over to take a look, but he was sure she was only doing it to hide her expression from them both.

"Your friend is with them now," he stated, making no attempt to hide his confidence. She could handle the truth.

"You think I don't know that?" she snapped back. Turning with more haste than he'd seen since her return, Regina left for the back office and locked the door behind her, ignoring the pain in her leg entirely.

He stood there motionless for some time, replaying the conversation in his mind and analysing potential causes for her abrupt change in mood. Was it such an error to say what they were all thinking? The sounds of a gathering crowd could be heard in the distance, and not for the first time.

"You're not very good at this, are you?" Jane said, looking back with a faint smile.

"I'm working on it," he said, forcing himself to meet her gaze. It was so tiring, forcing himself to put on these performances. "I was right, wasn't I? Anders' man controls the state media, Royce's man, her friend, is in Polostin; therefore the southern district has surrendered to them without a fight? They're sending a message through the media to those in a position to understand it?"

"Why are you even asking? We all know. You think she needed you to point it out?"

They watched each other for a long moment, and he felt more was said with that long stare than in any of her words. He turned to leave with a stiff nod, each step heavier than the last.

"I know you're a liar, Edward. I know you used us; I know why. I won't tell him. Not yet." Jane's words were soft, remarkably so for their honesty. Edward looked back expecting a confrontation, but she'd already turned away.


	22. Chapter 22

_Note: Attention to detail will be rewarded if you're into that kind of thing._

Edward's cramped, cold quarters were growing uglier by the day. Conditions were no different, but the sense of dread he felt was only stronger as each day passed, something that had a remarkable effect on the warehouse's ambiance. The realisation that he'd ended that conversation on uncomfortable terms with all three of them wasn't helping, though Regina was sure to return to her usual self before long. Seeing her apparent friend in the company of one of her torturers; the effect that would have was obvious in hindsight. Jane's statement wasn't even a surprise. How could it be?

It was as difficult for him as it was for them. The underground facility was a mere hour away to the south-west. The streets were in such disarray that reaching it would be simple enough; the military would be sure not to interfere. And if they did? Once they descended into that maze of metal halls they'd never be allowed to leave again. Risking the same strategy again and using Gail or Kesler's forces to clear it would be a mistake, particularly since Gail would know what the generator was and react violently.

Hours of thought passed alone, the sun gradually fading. The power still hadn't returned, but none of them seemed to care. He allowed himself to slip into the familiar cycle of rumination. Every option would be a mistake. How could he admit that to them?

Observe, gather as much information as possible, and then act. Easier in principle than reality, and far easier as a scientist than a strategist. Their enemy had been identified, was likely in the city even as he sat in that filthy warehouse. She controlled a functional Third Energy generator and the state broadcasting station. Her own group of allies was likely far smaller than Royce's. Dmitri Mirzin, a group of Borginian militiamen, and a detachment of former ceremonial guards.

Would it make such a difference? The sounds of distant commotion were becoming more frequent. Third Energy could be used to annihilate an entire army instantly, but the threat of doing so would surely be enough. Actually using it, ending tens of thousands of lives in an instant. Who could justify that over something so small?

Shifting the heavy crate he was using as a makeshift seat to one side, Kirk extracted a thick black case from a hole in the floor beneath. The Initializer and Stabilizer lay within. He ran his hand over the Stabilizer's flawless outer cover, examined it in the day's last light, and returned it to its place. Unsuitable for sustained energy generation, but it would control the output for long enough to use the Third Energy as a weapon, he was quite sure.

It was an unpleasant truth, and the cause of more stress than he'd ever anticipated. They'd have congratulated him, given him near unlimited funding, and all for giving them yet another method to subjugate their own people. Borginia were no different, no matter how many times they claimed to need it for defensive purposes.

There was something else in the case. If a lack of information was to blame for his indecisiveness, there was one way—a particularly undesirable way—of obtaining more answers. The phone he and Anders had used to coordinate the supposed hostage handover had been kept at her request. None of the others knew she'd made that request; he considered it a difficult thing to explain, but discarding a valuable tool would only set them back even further.

Except it wasn't there. His chest turned to ice as the sense of impending dread morphed, changing into panic. He restrained the impulse to start tearing the room apart in a futile attempt to find the device; he hadn't touched it once since their return.

"Hey, look, I didn't mean to snap at you, you just pissed me off—"a resigned voice said from behind. Turning to meet her eyes from obligation, though his mind was somewhere else entirely, Edward stood up and continued to devise possible explanations while she spoke until Regina seized his collar and shook him back to reality with an exasperated sigh.

"You don't make it easy to be apologetic, you jerk. I didn't…" she began to say, though the outrage was obviously feigned. "Hold on, what's wrong? You look like you've been shot, and I'm not joking."

"It's not here," he mumbled, pointing at the hole in the floor.

"Wait. Slow down, clarify." She proceeded to ignore her own advice, kneeling down and seizing the black case in a single motion. "What's not here? What else do you keep down here?"

"The phone. I wanted to talk to Eliza, but it's gone." Remembering the situation, he decided to take Jane's advice. Regina could figure it out easily enough without being handheld through the process.

And so she did. "Are you sure you didn't just lose it?" He was familiar enough with the way she solved problems to see she knew the answer already.

A moment's silence was enough of a response. He sighed and shoved the crate back into place, sitting on it to collect himself. "Why would they want to talk to her?"

"She wouldn't," Regina said, pointing back at the exit.

"… but he would. That's what you're saying, isn't it?"

Her only response was an uncertain glance and a shrug.

"That's not what I'd call reassuring."

"Who's to say it's a bad thing? Why should he hide from her?" Regina asked, making a valid point in doing so. His mistrust of Harper had only grown since their initial meeting despite their continual cooperation, and it was showing.

"He's hidden it from us, isn't that bad enough?"

"We're all hiding something. Don't assume the worst just yet, it's a guaranteed way to ruin everything," Regina said, sitting next to him on the crate. The sun had all but entirely faded, leaving only a thin sliver of light

"He has the resolve we don't. Is that true?" he replied, avoiding her questioning stare.

"Resolve isn't always a good thing. From the moment we met in that hotel, I think he wanted to break this country and die in the process. I saw the same thing in Anders, a kind of desperation. I'd like to think we've got more hope than that," Regina said, resting her head on the wall. He could hear the sympathy in her voice.

"We," he said, "actually do have the power to break this country. The trouble is, they all know it."

"Not half as fun as it sounds, is it? I think that's how it should be." She fell silent, though he could see she wasn't finished. Simply sitting there in the fading light wasn't unpleasant, at least.

Even so, the tightness in his chest had only grown since her return. Each of their lives had been dictated by the others' actions from the moment this conflict started. Why was he so cold?

"I was so sure of myself. Not just on Ibis Island, but my entire life. All those who died, and I've forgotten them all, were irrelevant. I told myself that for so long, and now that I'm in a position to prove it I can barely even move."

Regina remained silent, and he found himself unable to look at her. "Ever since I came back here I've told myself that same thing, and with each day I believe it less. My thinking was childish, assigning people labels and pretending that meant something. It's not pity, for them or me, so why don't I know why to do?" He held his hand up in the light next hers and stared at it.

She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled softly. "We all want to believe what's most comfortable. Pretending we know what we should do, what's worthwhile and what isn't. It's all just a lie, isn't it? Being able to admit it now is the most important thing. Funny, really. All I've lost and I don't feel any worse for it. Is that so bad?" He sighed, and she put her hand on his shoulder, the slight lack of pressure reminding him of her missing finger.

Her words took his thoughts, his shapeless, nameless ideas, and attempted to give them order. It was far more than he'd ever hoped for. "If that's true, then what's most comfortable right now?"

Her grip tightened ever so slightly, and he realised with some satisfaction the question had surprised her.

"I'd like to think we can avoid this conflict. That we're not actually involved, that if I just sit here and do nothing the world's going to forget I'm here. This is the closest to a normal life I've had for a long time. Even for just a while is that so wrong after this?" Regina held her hand up in the dim light and smiled bitterly.

He shook his head. "The desire isn't wrong. The belief that it's possible… you said it yourself. We delude ourselves because it's comfortable."

"Does that mean the truth has to be uncomfortable? What a cheerful conclusion." A hint of her usual sarcasm helped to lighten the mood, if only slightly.

"I don't know about that. I'm more comfortable now than I was as a researcher, if you believe it," he said, eliciting an amused snort from Regina.

"I believe you. You still want to continue that research, right? Seems a shame to stop now, I think, when it's just a weapon."

That much was true. "I do believe in the potential of Third Energy, even now. And not just for annihilating armies. Can you imagine, really imagine, what a near-infinite source of energy could do? I can barely picture it myself. Not to mention what we saw that night. You remember as well as I do."

"I do," she said, almost in a whisper. "And I also remember the look on Anders' face in that warehouse. What Harper told me when we met, that he'd never found a goal worth the effort. I never forgot that. In hindsight I think she tried to tell me the same thing. Now she's in control of your generator, and Royce has Ibis Island. Might've been best to destroy them when we had the chance."

"We can't allow that to continue," he replied, even more softly. "But we can't stop their civil war either."

"So we don't stop it. If Rick thinks Colonel Royce is worth helping I'm going to assume he's got good reason for it."

He raised an eyebrow, though it was so dimly lit that the effect was lost entirely. "You don't mean you want to help him again?"

"No, I don't. So what if the military splits itself in half? Thinking about that's not going to get us anywhere, but we could use the distraction to try and take back your generator. Let's face it, without the military's support none of this would ever have happened. They brought it on themselves."

The sudden burst of motivation in Regina's voice only served to drain him of energy, but she was serious. "And if we can't retake the generator?"

"I don't know about you, but I don't think she's holding onto that place for nothing. If she activates it—"

"She can't activate it."

"Yet. Even Royce must've been considering it. What if that's her real goal? How can we take that risk?" Regina said, and he knew she was serious. Justifiably so, even with his reservations.

"I won't deny it's a possibility. More likely than not we'd never get near the generator without being killed."

"Then we destroy it from above if we have to. If we can't have it, nobody can. There's something seriously wrong with letting her have that kind of power. We might be able to stop them, or we might not. Either way, how much do we really have to lose?" She stood up, grabbed his hand, and pulled him up after her with far more strength than someone so injured should've had left.

"Our ill-tempered friend may not approve of that," he protested, mind filling with countless obstacles to present in defence of his own position.

"Forget him. I'll find out what's wrong, just give it some thought, alright?" Regina said, looking over her shoulder while she dragged him back into the main warehouse.

Their abrupt entrance was greeted by a wide-eyed stare from Jane, who'd evidently been trying to sleep on the couch without much success. "You two were in there for a while. Enjoy yourselves?" she asked, looking them both over carefully.

"Very funny. Never would've guessed you had such a filthy mind under all that sweet talk," Regina said, releasing her grip to look out the window at the road out the front. Joining her revealed the streets were surprisingly busy.

The distant sounds of something vaguely resembling conflict or construction had grown ever so slight closer. It was growing easier to appreciate how isolated they were. Not only from their own former allies, but the citizens of their own nation.

"I hope he's happy," Jane murmured, looking up at them both.

"Why?" Edward asked, his attention still fixed on Regina. She'd done it again, and so easily. If the direction she'd shown him was the optimal one he couldn't say, but it was a start.

"He always wanted this, even when we were teenagers. One day, he always told me, Alvernia would fall apart and never be able to hurt us again, but we couldn't do it. One night, after he became an officer, he found me for the first time in months and said he'd found a way to make it happen." She looked up, eyes shining ever so slightly in the evening light. "After all this, I'd like it if one thing in his life worked out."

"His life? Why not do something for yourself?"

She stood up. "Something for me? That might be fun. Let's go outside."

Edward hoped his dismal facial expression accurately conveyed his reservations about that idea, but it wasn't so. Regina turned away from the window, expressed her approval, and the three of them were on the busy street before he could even begin to argue against the idea.

Closing the heavy gate behind them, he was astounded to see both ends of the road, and most of the space between, were occupied. An intricate barricade erected from sandbags and iron had sealed half the eastern end of the street, and more supplies were being carried in from the west. The organisation they'd seen earlier that afternoon was yielding results, and it difficult not to simply stop and stare in amazement.

The sounds of conflict in the far south persisted, easier to hear in the open air if harder to discern through the noise. It appeared that Royce's dream of civil revolt was a reality; the workers from many of the industrial sites had continued working, only now to seal off the western end of the city—and the port, most likely—from any attempt by the military to take back control through force. Was this an isolated incident? He suspected not.

"Pretty impressive, isn't it? Who'd have guessed it would come to this?" Regina commented, brushing the windswept hair out of her eyes in an attempt to observe the western end.

"If they're saying that over in their giant fortress we might just be alright," Jane said, pointing at the intimidating white spectre rising above the industrial buildings. That might be true, Edward thought, not bothering to elucidate. The last week had proven the fortress wasn't impenetrable. Staging an attack from the inside was beyond impressive, even if he loathed having to admit it.

He felt an impatient hand tap his shoulder and looked back to see Regina still watching the western end. She waved abruptly in that direction, evidently hoping he'd take the hint. "Is that who I think it is?"

Directing the placement of armed militiamen was a tall man in a grey jacket, pointing from place to place with surprising vigour. A small crowd had gathered to listen to his words, including what looked to be the crew from a supply truck. As they watched the streetlights flickered back to life to the sound of cheering and applause.

"Hey, you three just going to watch? We need as much help as we can get," an abrasively loud voice said from the road. The three of them turned to see a bald man with a heavy sandbag thrown over each shoulder eyeing them accusingly, at least until he saw Regina's obvious injuries.

"Help with what?" Regina asked, stepping onto the road with her eyes still fixed on the man in grey.

"Where've you been all day?" the bald man replied, faltering in his vehemence when he realised she was missing a finger. "We're sealing off all the main roads west. The military's pulled out and we're not going to let them come back. If the south can do it so can we, am I right?" He turned back and continued east with a brusque nod.

"They're more organised than I would've expected. Not as stupid, either," Edward said, watching her reaction with interest.

"That's because you think everyone's stupid until you meet them and have to take it all back," Regina said. They left for the western end without another word. It was easy to be overwhelmed by the sense of purpose in the air, the feeling that these people were persevering despite their slim chance for success. The barricades were skilfully built, he realised as they approached, likely to provide enough defence to hold back an infantry advance unless they brought in armoured support, which would only serve to further inflame the conflict. Either way they'd gain something.

It was, as they suspected, Harper directing the armed militiamen. The anger and resentment in his voice had been replaced by authority and a commanding tone. He was pointing out the best defensive positions with one hand, eyes fixed on an enormous map. The militiamen looked genuinely impressed by his expertise. Regina stepped forward, ready to join the crowd, but Jane held her back.

"Just let him have this moment. It's been such a long time," she said, releasing her light hold on Regina's arm with a faint smile. To his surprise, Edward understood her meaning before Regina did. To Harper these people weren't just workers or faceless citizens. They were what he once was. The chance to reverse time, to return to the comforts of the past, was something he could understand all too well. Here Harper could be something other than what he was for the first time in far too many years, perhaps the last time in his life. Edward turned away with a wistful look at his two companions.

"If you say so. Odd to see him without a scowl on his face," Regina said, turning from side to side to appraise the surroundings. "Not a bad defence, actually. If the city's attacked from the sea the military's going to lose the entire coast without a fight. If they complain now they'll get accused of massacring civilians just like the other night." She was smiling now, her bright eyes gleaming with amusement. It was an oddly comforting sight, and for some time he found it hard to look away from her.

Turning into the next section they were greeted by a similar sight. Whether working or simply relaxing in the open air, Merestan's streets were more alive than he'd ever seen them. The calmness of its residents came as a sharp contrast to the bleakness of the situation, but he thought he was beginning to understand why Harper looked so content, even it would only be for a night.

"We could… assist, I suppose," he tentatively said, looking between the two of them with immediate regret.

"You're full of surprises today, aren't you?" Regina said, restraining an obvious addendum to that question.

"Well, I can see several weaknesses in this layout. It'd be nothing less than unforgivable if I allowed such errors to remain uncorrected. The guidance of an educated man in these matters would be invaluable, especially since we'll benefit from them," he claimed, gesturing grandiosely at a darkened alley leading south, unguarded and unwatched.

"Might not be such a bad idea, actually. Gives us an excuse to find out what's been going on without looking suspicious," Regina replied with a short laugh at his absurdly exaggerated manner.

"You shouldn't even be moving like this," Jane said. From her undisguised frown it was clear that telling Regina to sit around and do nothing was almost enough to cause offense. Giving up entirely, Jane stared meaningfully at him, shrugged, and turned back toward the street Harper was on with a short wave.

The next few hours were spent wandering the streets, examining each of the enterprises he could find, pointing out obvious errors and less obvious solutions. Having the opportunity to tell people how they were wrong and actually be thanked for it was rather new, but it was an interesting exercise. They were, after all, opposed to the military's interests, and the people he spoke to were far more open to questions after he proved his helpfulness.

It was obvious that they many of the more dedicated workers were watching for military agents. Fortunately Regina, the only actual military agent among them, former or not, attracted more sympathy than suspicion, and people were quite willing to indulge her questions. Edward's desire to head further west forced her to admit her leg was aching far more than was healthy; he continued alone for some time, observing and commenting when necessary.

Finding a team attempting to move supplies north inspired him to take action, and they argued for at least twenty minutes over the specifics. "That would be true only if the majority of their forces would arrive from the south, not the north. And that is decidedly not true. You'd be far safer moving your supplies further south," he concluded, pointing at the mountain range to the north-west and hoping their self-appointed logistics manager would understand.

Whether he ultimately did or not was hard to say, but with fifteen more minutes Edward found himself closer to the coast. The faintest hint of salt could be savored in the unseasonably warm air. Being so helpful was far more tiring than he'd hoped, even if it did have its moments of satisfaction. The crowds were thinner here, and it came as a surprise when he nearly collided with a woman on an otherwise sparsely populated road.

"Sorry, I was a little preoccupied," she said, stammering a quick apology for what he considered a rather trivial event. Several years younger than him, perhaps, he thought as he scanned her for details, with an athletic body and an odd streak of purple in her otherwise forgettable brown hair.

Standing back and staring at him in the streetlight, her eyes widened and she pushed past to make a hasty exit. In hindsight, he considered, so blatantly looking her over may have given her a poor impression of him. Scowling in the face of an apology likely hadn't helped either.

It was such an unmemorable encounter. Despite recognising that, his taste for exploration faded rapidly after their collision and he decided to return to the more populous part of the district. Empty shopfronts and boarded up buildings were only adding to the grim mood. Opting for a compromise and taking the long way back, Edward noticed the anti-air emplacements built into the western command were well-lit at night. A deliberate choice, if he knew the military.

A local bar, unnamed and unsigned, was attracting a great deal of attention. Its emergence was enough to remind him he'd headed east for far too long. Any further east and the inner districts, far too close to western command, would come into view. Switching to the other side of the street to avoid the crowd, he watched another man approach from the east, hands deep in the pockets of a black jacket, his eyes fixed on the crowd with a melancholic stare.

They passed wordlessly, but he could tell the man had stopped to stare at him and continued to an intersection. Walking through the streets for some time, he knew he was being followed; the man had no attempt to hide his presence. Turning down the most populated street and stopping in a public park across from an especially seedy bar, Edward waited for his return. It wasn't long before the man arrived at the edge of the park as he suspected he would, watched silently for a moment, and took the seat next to him. The armed militiamen would treat any disturbance to the peace harshly, no doubt.

"Impressive, isn't it? All my life I've wanted to see this happen," the man said, dragging a boot through the gravel.

"Quite a lot of effort was needed to make it happen, I'm aware. Does that make you proud?" Edward replied, meeting the man's eyes without hesitation. A family of four walked down the centre of the road, enjoying one of the year's last warm nights.

"Pride is irrelevant. It had to be done, so we did it. I thought you, of all people, could appreciate that," Dmitri Mirzin replied, not a hint of emotion in his voice.

Pride _was_ irrelevant. "And mutilating an innocent woman for nothing? That inspires no shame? You didn't even need her to make your plan work. We couldn't have stopped the ceremonial guard if we'd wanted to."

The muscles in Mirzin's jaw tightened ever so slightly, but he remained motionless. "None of us have been innocent for a long time, Kirk. That said, I didn't realise. Not until it was too late. I don't know why she went so far, but—"

"You're not half as stupid as you like to pretend you are," Edward snapped, his anger fuelled by the other man's calmness. "You realised what she would do and you let it happen because you didn't care. For once in your life just admit it, Mirzin. It hurts less to be honest, believe me just this once."

Mirzin looked at him for a long moment and his expressionless face fell, revealing a sharper stare underneath. "You're not wrong. I liked you both, even considered her a friend. I'd known Eliza for long enough to see the risk. Maybe if I'd said something she wouldn't have done it. But tell me: what's one life compared to an entire nation? That's the choice I made and I'll live with it."

"You were supposed to be the trustworthy one, I think. I know I'm unpleasant. Irritable, arrogant, call it what you want. People rely on men like you._ Normal_ is the word they use. It's all a lie, isn't it? Everyone I meet, the only thing I can genuinely say I know about them is that they're full of lies," he said with a short laugh, looking up at the faint stars above.

"You're right to think that. For so many years nothing I did changed anything. Only now, when I butcher hundreds, become a murderer, lie to the people I want to help, does it make any difference. It's absurd."

Freely admitting his crimes had no cathartic effect for Dmitri, who looked even more tired for his effort. It was difficult to hate him; as much as he wanted to despise the man it was too hard not to see himself in Mirzin's words.

"You should've realised. All those years in Royce's office, you never saw her for what she was? Don't act surprised now."

Dmitri laughed, but it was entirely humourless. "We never see anyone for what they are, Kirk. Haven't you learned that yet? As for Eliza, well, just being around her has a way of ruining people, but I'm past complaining. Never did respect self-pity. Without her we'd have nothing, just a quick return to business as usual. I'd rather die." He shrugged, clearly unconcerned.

"Even if this works," Edward said, pointing at the people walking past, "it'll never be enough to satisfy you. Do what you want, but don't pretend regret changes anything. You'd need to delude yourself to believe it."

Mirzin stood up and looked down with an almost uninterested smile. "I know. It's a shame things had to be this way, isn't it? Don't worry. I didn't come here to find you. Tell Regina I apologise, would you? Neither of you should've had to deal with this, but we all know what that's worth."

Edward stood up and began to follow him before pulling back. "You lived here, didn't you? Why are you just an observer? You should be one of these people, not hiding in the shadows."

Dmitri Mirzin turned back to face him, hands back in his pockets. His expression was bitter, reminiscent of Harper's feigned smile. "I told you. What's one life compared to an entire nation? We've all got sacrifices to make. This is their night, let them enjoy it."

The world continued moving as Mirzin vanished at the end of the street. No attacks came, no attempts at subterfuge, just the unassuming activity of the city around him. Edward sat back down with an irritable scowl directed at nobody in particular.

"How ridiculous," he muttered, crossing his legs with a protracted sigh. "What does she do to them? He finally makes real progress toward the only goal he ever had and can't even enjoy it. You chose this, you deal with it. Is that how I sound?" A frightened glance from two passing women only served to further frustrate him.

Even discarding the obvious threat of Third Energy and his responsibility for allowing it to so easily fall into the wrong hands, seeing the optimism and preparations of the citizens' militia groups had made it obvious. Allowing Eliza Anders to have her way without complaint would be akin to a tacit admission of defeat. Looking over his life ever since leaving Borginia for the first time it was difficult not to see her looming over each and every failure. Always there, always watching. Even tonight, of all nights, Mirzin had been sent as if purely to deflate his good mood, her influence on him and his ideals staining the otherwise pleasant evening.

Any remaining interest he'd felt towards remaining outside was quickly fading. The noise of the crowds had changed, becoming more irritating than fascinating. Inevitable as that was, it was an improvement on his earlier mood.

"Hey, look at that. I won the bet. Small victories, huh?" a painfully energetic voice said from behind. Looking directly up revealed Regina had refused to remain still contrary to all medical advice, the least surprising outcome imaginable.

"What bet? You're far too lively. Do you ever sleep?" Edward asked, knowing his voice had adopted Mirzin's sorrowful tone in place of the motivation she'd given him earlier.

She pushed him over and sat down, skilfully concealing a slight wince when the underside of her thigh hit the wooden seat. "I made a bet with Jane that you'd be sitting somewhere looking as mysterious as you could, and you were. It's not easy, always being right. You can sympathise, I'm sure."

"I can't be as predictable as that. I'll have you know I spent several hours lending my expertise to these people. Tell me you're not surprised."

Her flat stare and doomed attempt not to smile should've made it obvious. "I know. I was there, remember? Followed you around for way too long. Nice to know you kept it up without me supervising. I always said you had it in you."

"You did not," he objected, unable to express his disbelief without gesturing dramatically. "And yes, I… well, no, after you left I took a well-deserved break. A short break. If you weren't so late you'd have seen me engaged in something far more important, so I think we can conclude that you're to blame."

"To blame for what? You never even said you'd—"Regina cut her reply off entirely, evidently having realised he could argue about nothing for the entire night if given the chance.

"It's not so bad though, is it? I used to hate this city. You know those militia guys dragged Harper off to a bar to thank him for the help? Shame it can't stay this way forever."

Now she sounded wistful, and that was too much. "Let's go somewhere,' he suggested, standing up with surprising ease.

"Wait, where? Why?" Regina asked. She attempted to rise and stumbled with a pained gasp, grasping onto his arm for support. Her hand was cold and shuddering, and the lamplight revealed her pale face was soaked in sweat.

"You really are a fool," he murmured, looking at her in an entirely different light.

"Just help me up without the insults, would you? My leg's seized up."

He did so without complaint. "Everything you've said and done. You've never once admitted that you were struggling too. But you are, aren't you?"

"Someone's got to hold us all together. We've made it further than I thought we would, and I mean that in more ways than one. Doesn't change the fact that you barely make it through some days. I'm not stupid, I can see it. Why do you think I came back this afternoon?"

"That doesn't change—"

"It does. My problems are a distraction at best, and certainly not your concern," Regina said, her soft tone hardening with resolve.

"Now you're being arrogant." He gained her attention, at least, without a trace of anger. "I'm not going to be like her, you understand? If all I can do is ruin people's lives what's the point?"

"Don't be an idiot. You pulled me out of that warehouse—"

"How many times have you rescued me? Don't you understand it yet? That's not why I bothered to come back for you. You can be remarkably dense at the least opportune times." He pulled her to the side of a small stream in the centre of the park, tired of being watched by the crowds.

"It's not just you I underestimated. It's all of them. Everyone." Saying even this was difficult, but she needed to hear something. "You were right. When I spoke to Anders I heard myself in her voice. Everything I always wanted to be. Cold and violent and cunning enough to outsmart the entire world. I need to be better than that, and I'd never had realised if you hadn't forced me to admit it. You've already done something she never could, so don't be modest now."

Regina's cautious stare faded, revealing the emotion hidden underneath. "Every time I think I have you figured out you go and pull this on me. I'd say you were inconsiderate, but just this once I'll be honest. Hearing you say that, it's like you're someone else entirely. Strange thing is, I believe you, and I don't know why but I can respect that, so thanks. I think."

He took a step back, but concealed his surprise. "I'm rather good at solving problems, if you hadn't noticed. Now say something suitably inspiring before I come to my senses and stop talking."

"You know, they might just invade tomorrow and we'll both get killed for nothing. All this progress you think you're making gone just like that. You're okay with that?"

"Maybe so, but they haven't invaded tonight. Might as well make the most of it, don't you think? It's not easy for me to be so amiable, so don't waste your chance."

It wasn't so unpleasant, he realised, standing there on one of the last warm nights of the year speaking in such an uncharacteristic manner all for her benefit. The change was difficult; going against his natural inclinations even more so. The result, however, looked to bring an amused smile and even a hint of satisfaction to her sharp features.

"You make a good point; I'd be an idiot to waste one of your elusive good moods. That said, I've completely overdone it tonight and my leg's going to stop working any minute. You wanted to know if I was in trouble, so there you go."

Edward looked up at the sky again. "That won't do at all, it's probably not even midnight. I never get to sleep before sunrise, so we'll have to find a form of entertainment that doesn't require walking. That's my preference, if you hadn't guessed." He turned back toward to road, looking impatiently over his shoulder. "I don't think I can carry you, so you'd better move while you can."

"I can't tell if you're going for a subtle insult or if that was actual concern," Regina said, testing her leg with a short step forward. "Either way, I think I'll just go with it. Back to the warehouse?" Regina asked, though they'd already reached the road by the time she said it, her attempts to hide a slight limp failing miserably.

"Where else? We're a little short on options, at least until we steal back a more appropriate living space. Oh, and that reminds me, do you remember Dmitri Mirzin? I think we lived with him for a month or two. He came to see me about five minutes before you did. Strange night, isn't it?"

A sharp gasp from behind and a sharper punch to the back of his shoulder came as a sign of success. "You are such a jerk. Why didn't you tell me that to start with? Did he threaten you? Make any demands?" Regina asked, firing off a long series of questions that Edward answered in a monotone he hoped conveyed his disinterest in answering more questions.

As expected, curiosity and the resulting rush of adrenaline was enough to distract Regina from her wounds. Despite the late hour the streets were still alive with activity, the atmosphere less oppressive than usual despite the heavy presence of armed guards.

His ploy worked; by the time Regina was satisfied with his answers they'd reached the warehouse gates without any dramatic public scenes of pain and injury. She was entirely correct, of course. Their isolation wasn't enough to justify any illusions of insignificance. Even so, was it so wrong, as she'd asked, to forget about those concerns even for one night? Allowing any of their enemies to take even this much more from him, from both of them, was entirely impermissible.


	23. Chapter 23

The watchtower offered a commanding view of the entire city in all its splendour. Situated on elevated terrain in the centre of the sparsely populated north-western district, it allowed a single man to identify any oncoming threats from either the sea or the eastern side of the city.

Built from weather-beaten white stone, it was an example of the elegant design favoured in an earlier era. The same expertise that envisioned and built the five command centres for the nation's most significant cities could still be seen in the oldest examples of architecture, rare as they were outside the capital. A fondness for utilitarianism during the arduous process of industrialisation had seen the end of that idea and its supposed wastefulness. Merestan was an unfortunate victim of this ideology.

This knowledge was enough to give Regina a greater appreciation for the enormous cathedral she'd been forced to stare at for the better part of an hour. Unfortunately her curiosity had given way to boredom after the first ten minutes. No amount of impatient pacing had improved this situation. Her communicator, stuffed in one pocket, was equipped only for communication. A critical design flaw, in hindsight.

The grey skies and deserted streets, however, came as an unexpected relief. There was a tangible sense of tension surrounding each and every person she met, as if everyone were permanently on edge. Regina was more aware of the reasons for this than most.

Two weeks had passed since the incident at the western command centre. The military's response was a forceful attempt to hide the increasingly obvious reality that they were losing control. Officially the border between Alvernia and the newly independent southern district was at peace. In reality, well, it was hard to say. Video footage of skirmishes had been released onto the streets and, even harder to ignore, refugees from that region had been steadily flowing into the city.

The chance to be alone for a time, dangerous as it could be, was also appreciated. The warehouse they were using as living space was cold and uncomfortable. The relationship between Harper and Kirk even more so, and so she'd tried to keep the two apart until a solution could be found that wouldn't lose them any more allies. Despite that, she'd forced herself to ask Harper, as calmly as she could, why he would have taken the phone Anders had left them.

Harper had freely admitted that he'd contacted Anders again. What she said he refused to share, but his already unstable mood had grown more so after her questions, more shaken than she'd ever seen him. If this wasn't finished soon he was going to break entirely, she was sure, but nothing she could think of would change that. Despite the risks, he'd taken to carrying the phone, never using it, but simply staring into space. It unnerved her. His thoughts were as unreadable as they'd always been and, unlike with Kirk, the longer she knew him, the further away he seemed.

The ornate cathedral doors opened with a long groan and she looked up, her right hand darting down for a weapon that wasn't there. Being caught during a long internal monologue was one of Kirk's habits, she realised with a slight smile.

"You're allowed in, you know. They'll be here in ten minutes," an older man said, standing at the entrance with a hand in his pocket.

Clenching her gloved right hand into a fist reminded Regina of a more practical reason for peace: she was in no condition to fight, not with the skill she'd had. Retraining her now useless instincts wouldn't be easy, and the idea seemed less appealing with each day. She'd given her body almost no time to heal, convinced that doing so now would lead to far worse problems in the near future.

Entering without concern, she was surprised to see the cathedral's interior was rather underwhelming. A communications station had been erected at the back, with much of the surrounding space filled with desks and beds. Stained glass windows bathed them in soft light. The air was heavy with dust, and she had the distinct impression the building had been abandoned for many years.

"I'd never have guessed," she murmured, running a hand over one of the screens. "The location is perfect, and you've got all the right equipment." It was hard to understand how such an informal force could be so organised.

"You're experienced with this?" the man replied, a hint of wariness in his rough voice. "From here we can see any activity on this side of the city. It's unfortunate, having to rely on such primitive methods, but effective enough. Military's not telling us anything, so we do what we can. Not that they let guests in too often." If he was expecting an explanation he wouldn't be getting one. Realising this, he took a seat in front of one of the larger monitors.

Truthfully she wasn't quite sure what they were doing either. For a militia the group seemed enormous, with cells throughout the entire city. Harper had involved himself inadvertently at first, but now spent most of his days avoiding them all to help plan attacks on the military, or so he said. If it kept him away from Kirk, which it did, that would be enough for her. That Jane was so reluctant to tell him the Third Energy was an ominous sign, she'd thought from the beginning.

"Could I take a look up top?" Regina asked. The view would be beautiful, undoubtedly, and she desperately needed to see something pleasant.

Looking over his shoulder for a moment, the watchman agreed and pointed to a ladder. "It's a long climb, but suit yourself. Watch out some of the looser rungs near the top."

It wasn't to be. The climb would be easy enough, but her hand couldn't wrap tightly around the iron without aching. As if the missing finger wasn't bad enough. Her moment of optimism ruined, Regina settled for watching the monitors, the watchman looking desperately eager to ask the obvious question.

Fortunately he knew better than to do that. "You heard the latest news? The border skirmishes are getting rough. We've seen some amateur footage, but they say it's bad this time. Nobody knows what's going on anymore. I don't know how they're going to feed all the refugees if that's true. You think we've got enough food for that? Not like they've got anywhere else to go."

More grim news hardly came as a surprise. "They're going to do that to us the first chance they get. You do realise that?"

"They've been trying for months. Let them come, I don't care. People have had enough."

There was something respectable in that, she thought. Of course, Mirzin had used the same rhetoric to justify informing on them. She'd thought of him as a friend, but ideology was clearly all he cared for. Not only that. If Kirk was right, and he usually was, the man was simply a capable actor. In hindsight, it was something she'd realised shortly after meeting him.

Both doors creaked open again, flooding the cathedral's interior with light. The man who slipped through was late, but he didn't seem to mind. Expecting Kirk to care about minor details was asking for too much.

"You'd better have a good reason for being so late," she said, standing up to take a better look at him. Not only that, the less time they spent in one place the better their chances of surviving.

"Don't I always? We were being watched, and had to take certain measures to avoid luring someone else here. I have to consider that the military may be looking for us too, but enough of that." He looked to have lost even more weight in the last week, and his late sleeping habits had turned into insomnia. Regina could sympathise; the same had happened to her.

"Great. You ready to tell me what's going on yet?" It was logical to assume that Gail would want proof that Kirk had kept to his word. From what she'd been told he was an important man now; surely he'd been far too busy to care about them.

"Well, I never expected this, so I'll let it explain itself. Suffice to say we could be in some trouble, or this could be what we've been looking for." Kirk replied. He seemed unconcerned, which was enough to calm her own suspicions for the moment.

"Come on, don't be so vague," Regina complained, but his eyes shifted over to the watchman and back and she relented.

"You'll never be able to change that. Some men enjoy making you work for the answers, even when they're completely trivial," a stern voice said from the entrance, the doors creaking once more.

Closing the doors behind her, the woman they were there to meet nodded at the watchman and stared at them both. Her clothes were plain, not a uniform of any description, but she wore a pistol on her hip.

"What were you thinking, making this decision by yourself?" Regina whispered to the man next to her, but he shook his head and remained silent.

"If he hadn't insisted you be allowed to come you'd have never known at all," Andrea Kesler said. She put the pistol aside and sat down, clearly uninterested in pursuing the topic further.

They fell silent for a moment. Kesler nodded at the watchman and he ascended the ladder with a disgruntled look on his face.

"This seems an opportune time to say it: I've already explained our predicament, including the value of the Third Energy project," Kirk said, not bothering to soften the news. "Anders suspects this, but doesn't _know_. The same is true for everyone else outside this room."

Kesler frowned, but didn't seem concerned. "I suspected as much. Anton funded a few projects, but not many of them had any success. Are you sure nobody else knows?"

He denied this vehemently, but Regina wasn't so sure. Lying was a poor strategy if they wanted her assistance. "Harper is all but certain that it works, but we haven't told him." The pointed stare Edward gave her as good as said this was her problem now, not his.

Kesler's groan was uncharacteristically expressive. "You're both terrible at this. Why haven't you interrogated him yet? The one person who might actually know what she's doing, and you let him walk around knowing something like that."

"We're not doing that," Regina said, leaving no room for argument. Interrogation was a vile euphemism. After her own experience, mercifully short through it was, she couldn't justify doing that to anyone, least of all someone who'd risked himself to help her more than once.

"No? I watched the two of them for years. I heard the rumours, too, and I believed them. If he wanted to kill her he could've done it. Forget it. Tell me what you need, and I'll tell you if it can happen."

Kirk's explanation was a long one, filled with various details—some not entirely true—that he'd kept concealed from anyone but her. Regina listened silently for the most part, adding a comment when necessary, but it rarely was necessary. His voice was clear and confident, and he could tell their confident approach was enough to make Kesler view them both as equals. Seeing him this way, she realised the lengths he must have gone to while arranging to retrieve her from that warehouse. It was hard not to be impressed.

Kesler's face revealed nothing of her thoughts until the end. It felt like asking for Gail's advice all over again. Blunt personality or not, Kesler's approach was far too familiar. They'd even be about the same age, somewhere approaching forty.

"I see." Her response was completely underwhelming. Regina had played this game before. Silence until one of them broke, and she was quite sure Kirk understood it as well as she did.

Kesler's patience ran out rather quickly and she sighed, looking up at the ladder. "I don't know whether to trust you. Truth is, we don't have any other options. If not for you," she said, gesturing at Kirk, "I wouldn't be here." Her statement was decidedly out of character, and Regina noticed immediately.

"What do you mean by that? Wouldn't be here?"

"I was supposed to seize the state broadcasting station on the night he convinced me to come and rescue you. Colonel's orders, you see. It was such a coincidence, I thought, that I'd be stupid not to go along with it. To put it bluntly, I lost twenty men because I didn't know Eliza was in the city. They were cut down in the street by her thugs. Can't take orders from a commander I don't trust, not when they're all relying on me to keep them alive."

Regina's chest turned to ice with the realisation. No matter where they went, what they did, was there no escaping them? "He's in the south now. The one who killed your soldiers."

Kesler stood up, opened the door, and waited for them to follow. "You're right. Kosra's militia, our allies," she said with a derisive snort. "The one in charge, tallest bastard you'll ever meet, needs to die. They turned on us without as much as a warning. Now she's got him running propaganda, subtle stuff, but we can't anywhere near that place. It's on the eastern side of the city."

The humidity outside came as a surprise after adjusting to the dusty air of the cathedral. They proceeded down the deserted street for a time at a slow pace. The grey skies painted the ancient buildings in a sombre light; it was likely to rain before the day was finished.

Her leg ached from time to time, but not enough to be more than an annoyance. Not for the first time she saw him glance over, obviously questioning whether or not she was in pain. It was a surprisingly touching gesture. More surprising was the realisation that being the recipient of concern made her uncomfortable. An illogical reaction, but a strong one.

"This should be fine. We won't be overheard here. Many in our ranks are spies, which is why I hide the fact that I'm our commander. Comes with letting anybody join, you understand," Kesler said, stopping in a trash-strewn park. The buildings on both sides were quiet, in a state of disrepair, and covered in graffiti. A perfect place for an ambush, if that was her intention. Trusting anybody at all was growing harder with each day. Another uncomfortable realisation.

"I do understand," Edward replied, meeting her intense stare directly. The man from Ibis Island, impulsive and petulant, had disappeared entirely.

"So do I. We're not going to sit back and let this happen," Regina added, standing at his side and watching Kesler intently.

A faint frown was her response. "When you destroyed that fuel depot I didn't understand why you refused my offer to return to the military." She looked between them as the first few drops of rain began to fall.

"You could've avoided all of this? Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. Any trace of conceit in his voice was gone, but to her relief there was no judgment either, only curiosity.

Truthfully she'd hoped to avoid telling him. It was her choice, and it felt too intimate to share. Why that was so, she couldn't say. "Why would I waste your time with something so trivial?"

"That was what I didn't understand then," Kesler said. "Now I do. You have my respect. That means I'll do what I can to aid you, but it might not be much. Anton's forces have taken southern command. He's going to use it as a staging ground to take the western district. I've secured our borders as best I can; it looks like they're moving in far sooner than I'd expected."

"A military coup? How uninspiring," Edward said, unable and unwilling to hide his displeasure.

Kesler shook her head. "We could have done that by now. The military needs to be supporting the populace. We never wanted a military dictatorship and couldn't move until the people decided they'd had enough. Our job is to stop the military gunning them down when they demand change, not to lead that change ourselves."

The distinction was a vague one, Regina thought, but it was an admirable aspiration. Most of them had given up their entire lives to fight for this; they were undoubtedly committed. Shifting her weight to her right leg helped with the growing discomfort, but only slightly. "Where do you fit in?"

"It's simple enough. I don't have the time to do anything other than hold our group together. The state is crumbling. They're facing riots everywhere except the east, and the strikes have crippled the economy entirely. After the show at western command they've held back, refused to use force, but the garrison's moving south already, and there have been sightings of a fleet to the south-west. You chose a terrible time to bring this to me."

"So we know practically nothing. Doesn't doing this under those conditions bother you?" Edward asked. The light rain was steadily growing heavier, but none of them cared.

"Of course it does. You designed a technology capable of destroying a city in a second. Doesn't that bother you? It's still your responsibility regardless of how you feel about it. I want both of you to promise me you'll do anything you can to stop them from using it. I don't care what it takes."

"Borginia were more interested in energy than weapons. Their biological weapons far exceed anything we've developed," Kirk said, frowning at her implication. "Speaking of which, they stored many of those weapons on Ibis Island. Another detail your beloved colonel neglected to mention, undoubtedly."

He sounded reluctant, and with good reason given the enormity of the request. Kesler was not the sort of person to tolerate lies or excuses. "I'm willing to do it," Regina said, and she surprised at how easy it was to say.

"Willing, maybe, but able?" The words felt like a blade twisting into her chest. "I know you haven't recovered yet, and no amount of pretending will convince me otherwise. If you can motivate him into doing what's best for us all, and not himself, that'll be enough," Kesler said. From the expression on Kirk's face, he felt similarly pained at the veiled accusation.

"It's irrelevant," Edward said, skilfully avoiding the obvious bait. "I don't intend to expose either of us to that level of risk. I've seen what she does to people. Two of them agreed to kill each other rather than be captured by the military again."

"And that's how I know you're not lying to me. All that emotion, do you hear yourself? As for your friends: our agreement is the same. Don't tell them about any of this, or you'll never see me again.

"Why?" Regina wasn't entirely sure she disagreed. Harper was unpredictable and violent, justifiably so, but he had more reason than any of them to despise the establishment.

"It's because you remind me of them," Kesler said, running a hand through her wet hair with a fleeting look at the heavy clouds above. "You've got the same look, right down to the way you're standing together. Every time I had to ask Eliza anything he'd be there, just watching. They were obsessed with each other, and not once did either of them admit it. I won't trust him with this."

Neither of them answered, the silence broken only by the light rain. Looking across, Regina saw she was standing ever so slightly between the two of them. That had to be coincidental.

Kesler adjusted her jacket, scowled, and turned to leave. "Don't look so surprised. For what it's worth, welcome to the citizens' militia. We may have to destroy the entire complex, so prepare yourself for that. We won't have long to make this happen before the fighting starts. Expect to be contacted within the day."

Turning the corner toward the cathedral with a short wave, she vanished from sight and they both sighed in simultaneous relief. Regina knelt down the moment Kesler was out of sight.

"You're overdoing it again. It's never going to heal if you insist on appearing completely fine to everyone we meet." He was the one who'd asked her to stop hiding her problems, but that was harder than it sounded.

"I refuse to look weak. Not in front of someone like her."

"Except she was clearly aware that you were about to fall over. Illogical, but I'd have done the same," he said, kneeling down with her. "In fact, I'll do so now since you've made it acceptable. Never did like standing for too long."

"Do you ever eat? I can see your ribs," she said, poking the aforementioned ribs through his soaked shirt.

"I suspect the excess energy is all used by my brain. How else do you look like this without any effort?" he said, but he also adjusted his clothing to hide how much weight he'd lost.

She pointed between the two of them and gestured at the surroundings. "I'd say this will do it. Look at us. Can't even be bothered standing up, but your idea worked perfectly. We've got actual allies for the first time in months, you'd think I'd be more excited."

He did stand up, though with a slight grimace. "Let's get out of the rain. I'd rather contemplate my own existential worries somewhere more comfortable than a rainswept ghetto."

Regina did so, silently thankful for his willingness to pretend he was any more sure of their direction than she was. His usual irritable expression was more expressive than she'd initially realised, and had a curious tendency to fade when he thought he was alone.

The streets were emptier than usual, even for the near-abandoned north-western district. The warehouse Anders had used while torturing her was uncomfortably close, and they returned through the backstreets in near silence. It was a comfortable silence, at least, or would have been if she wasn't too occupied by scanning their surroundings to enjoy the moment.

Any sense of community inspired by openly rebelling against the military had been quickly overtaken by paranoia. Military agents were enough of a problem. They were unwilling to use open force, but more than one important figure had been found executed on the street. Even without the looming threat posed by their own enemies, the optimistic air had been tainted by the reality that they were hopelessly outmatched without support.

In some respects the state's control over information had been more of a hindrance than anything else. If the methods sanctioned by the military in their wars were open knowledge, particularly against their own citizens in the north, who would dare openly oppose them? What Anders had done at the command centre was hardly new; she'd simply forced the oppressors to experience what they'd forced on so many others.

The actual source of disgust, she suspected, was in seeing the military commit such an atrocity. Not for its sheer violence, but because the populace had finally been forced to admit that the rumours were, indeed, true, and always had been.

"I don't think I want to go back," Regina said, murmuring the words with some regret. A persistent series of rumbling noises in the far south was only adding to her reluctance.

"We don't have a choice. We'll lie to them for their own benefit, if it makes you feel any better."

"It's not that. It's just, well, it feels like it's all happening again."

He slowed and stood in the middle of the waterlogged path. The rain fell steadily, unvarying in its persistence. "You could be right. You often are, surprisingly enough. Did I tell you that?"

"You did. I'm not going to forget something like that," Regina said, slightly uncertain when she noticed the difficulty he was having in choosing the words.

"It was something else. We can't stop a civil war, can we? I can hear you saying it in my mind, over and over, like I ever thought we could. Look at us now," he said, tapping the rough stone wall on his left. "I think my perspective's changed, but I don't know how."

Two cars passed, both occupied by militia members headed south. The driver, a woman who barely looked twenty, smiled briefly at them while passing. Regina watched him for a moment, taking in every detail of his face and gaunt body as he tried to finish his thought.

They were both thoroughly soaked, having been outside in the light rain for the better part of an hour. It was a pleasant feeling. Something as simple as walking down a rainy street with a friend in autumn was a rare experience for her, something to be valued. The leaves on the trees lining the street were still green, but hints of red were growing with each passing day.

His eyes followed the cars until they turned away, and he exhaled softly before looking back at her. "Delusions of grandeur, that's all it was. I pretended I was so superior to the rest of the world for years, and it ended with me rotting in a cell under an abandoned foundry. Some superiority that was."

"Nothing is objectively different, but you understand, don't you? I've lost that certainty, that surety that I was right. You heard Kesler. We may have to destroy everything my life's work, everything I ever wanted, and I didn't even protest."

"But that was the point, wasn't it? Perfect the Third Energy, prove them all wrong in the process. What changed?" Regina said, taking a step closer while Edward stared at the rows of stone buildings on each side, almost as if he'd never seen them before.

He stopped averting his gaze and looked back at her. "What do I gain by fulfilling that desire? What do I lose in the process? I don't want fame or power. The weapon I've created would've guaranteed both, had I simply admitted it would work. Does that mean it's all just for personal satisfaction?"

"Is that so wrong?"

He barely seemed to hear her question. "It's not enough."

He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, and pulled up the left sleeve of her jacket, exposing the mass of slowly healing cuts underneath. "You always seem so sure, even after this. Refusing to change even after acknowledging how wrong I was…" He trailed off, lost in his own thoughts once again, his hold on her arm loosening.

"It wouldn't mean anything, would it?" Regina said, so softly she thought he wouldn't hear, but he looked up, completely calm.

"I'll never know." he said, purging the uncertainty from his voice and turning back to continue south. She joined him, the growing pain in her leg a mere afterthought. "I'm not looking forward to this. Terrified is an uncomfortably accurate descriptor. Does that bother you?"

Regina shook her head. "I can't remember how many missions I've started. After a while you lose count. Every time you ask yourself if this is the one where you'll make a mistake, or get outsmarted, outgunned—it all leads to the same place. It's already happened once. At least this time I've got something worth fighting for."

"Does that make us revolutionaries? Never was much of an idealist," he asked, a hint of his characteristic smirk returning. "I suppose that it could be worse. It might be interesting, being the aggressor," Edward said, looking up with a dejected sigh as the rain stopped. "I was enjoying that."

"We can be whatever we want to be. No more orders, right? That said, I'm not suicidal. If it's too risky we'll cave the place in from above, agreed?" He'd already said this, more or less, but asking someone to willingly give up something so precious to them was never a sure thing. A slight vibration in her pocket came as a surprise, and she realised the communicator she'd taken to carrying had activated.

"I said as much, didn't I? I feel personally obligated to ensure we survive this. For all we know the generator's been deemed useless and abandoned. What did Eliza tell me my Stabilizer was? A useless toy? Not that I believe a word of that."

"I like the enthusiasm, even if it doesn't suit you," Regina said, awkwardly grasping the communicator and fumbling with it. A surge of irritation only worsened the situation and it fell to the floor and landed in the gutter. Resisting the urge to crush the thing was difficult; the realisation that such basic tasks were now challenging even more so.

"Here," Edward said. He knelt down and picked it up, wiping the water off before handing it back. "I can't imagine how frustrating it must be."

"Thanks. I'll get used to it. It's just… not easy for someone like me. I always feel vulnerable when I'm not at my peak physically. Guess I'll have to get used to it," Regina said, not bothering to hide her bitterness while she checked the device. "Can't say I expected this. Harper sent a message, wants to meet us."

"You're not looking forward to this either, are you? I know I'm not."

He wasn't wrong. "Let's get it over with. Once it's done we'll explain ourselves, but I don't think he's going to handle it well."

"We've enlisted the help of a respected community leader, not a military officer. I doubt it'll help, but these distinctions are important. Or so I'm told. The mere sight of a uniform is enough to send him into a blind rage, so it can't hurt."

"It doesn't matter. We're not going to mention it, and if he asks we were sightseeing or something. We certainly look the part," Regina said, pointing out her sopping jacket for emphasis. "And I know: he'll know we're lying. He won't know _how_ we're lying, which is good enough for now."

He attempted to hide a growing smirk, failed miserably, and looked away. "You're doing the talking."

"I always do. You can pretend you're irritable and oblivious like you always do until it's over," Regina said, turning for a street on the right. The crowds were slowly returning, though the occasional armed guard could be seen even during the rain. Most of the militiamen were stationed on the inner streets further from the coast.

Looking back after several minutes of silence, she was surprised to see a sullen look on Kirk's face, though his sodden blonde hair shrouded the details. Nobody appeared to be following them, at least, but there was always a chance that she was wrong. Being found had entirely different connotations now, she knew, though even the thought brought an involuntary scowl to her face. Initially she'd assumed Anders had chosen her tortures purely from sadism; as time progressed, she realised the resulting limitations were far too fitting. Had the entire interrogation been an act?

The sound of splashing water attracted her attention. A woman wrapped in a heavy coat was walking through the gutter, kicking the running water with her boots. Noticing them, she waved and ran across, long brown hair flowing freely. As expected, Harper was waiting in the back, responding to Regina's stare with a short wave.

"Thanks for coming. I told him you would," she said, slightly breathless. Had she been running?

"Where else would we be?" His statement was perhaps too abrupt to be believable, but she didn't seem to notice.

"In the rain, by the look of it," Jane said, smiling at the sight of their soaked clothing. "It's nice to see. You two look good together, both walking down the street with those serious faces," she continued, rendering them both momentarily speechless.

"We were busy," Kirk replied in the flattest voice any of them had ever heard. Regina nodded her agreement, still completely taken off guard by Jane's cheerfulness.

"You still are busy. I've got to tell you something, so let's find somewhere private. We'll see you two back at the warehouse, okay?" Jane said, walking past and leading him back down the street. Regina watched them leave over her shoulder, receiving an odd look from Kirk before he turned away to follow, seemingly baffled by everything she'd said. The muffled booms in the south were growing heavier and more frequent.

Recalling their first meeting, it was difficult to reconcile the man watching her with the calm, collected officer who'd went out of his way to save her from imprisonment and Kirk from assassination, killing five people in the process. Harper's angular face had grown gaunt, his cheekbones showing through sallow skin. His eyes were bright with a feverish energy, but showed no emotion.

"You wanted to speak to me alone," Regina said, approaching without hesitation. It wasn't a question.

"Straight to the point. I can always rely on you to be blunt. It's refreshing. It's also why Kirk's always standing behind you, whispering in your ear. Each of you can cover the other's weaknesses," Harper said, still not moving.

"Don't act like you're not the same. You use Jane to manipulate people into trusting you. It's called teamwork."

"It wasn't an accusation. And I don't _use_ her for anything. We've been doing this for fifteen years. It's how you survive." He scowled and looked aside. "Forget it. I'm not here to argue with you."

"Then why are you here? It's not like you to ask for a meeting. Every other time you just show up and drag me off to kill someone for you. I'm incapable of that now, if you hadn't noticed," Regina said, faltering when he flinched at her words.

Harper remained stubbornly silent. An effective tactic, given he wasn't the one with an injured leg and soaking clothes. The point was taken, however, and Regina realised how little he'd done to deserve the insults. They were all complicit in those crimes.

"That was too far. Sorry," Regina said, rubbing her eyes. "Look, why are we here, Harper?"

"I thought you deserved some honesty, and didn't know how else to do this," Harper said, finally taking a step closer. His grey eyes fixed on hers with curiosity, almost as if he'd never before seen her in the light of day. "I couldn't do it. Never could, when it came down to it. Always made an excuse to back off right when I should've done something."

He ran a hand over his face and smiled for the first time in a week. "I thought about it for a while. Killing you both, finding a way to take that generator myself. I know it could've worked. Well, if I'd done it last week."

She wasn't even surprised. It would be a standard procedure in SORT, to eliminate an obstacle so efficiently. "Why didn't you?"

"Maybe I was in a good mood. Truth is, it doesn't matter." He reached into his pocket and Regina recoiled, ready to flee if necessary. "Or maybe that's the reason," he murmured, offering her the phone. Releasing it seemed to lift a heavy weight from his features.

"I spoke to Eliza again. Didn't know what else to do. I thought it was as easy as running away. Easy to think that when it's the only thing you've ever done right. "

"What is she to you?" Regina asked. "All those years in the military. Every day you would've been in that office with her. I don't know who I would've killed first, her or myself. Was she threatening you, or Jane, or someone?"

He laughed, so bitterly that it pained her to hear it. "I wish I could say that. It'd make this easier. Truth is, I was too scared to even try. Too used to the mind games to risk it. That's what I told myself." He turned around and looked at the other end of the street, but Regina could see he didn't want to look at her. "Every day I said to myself, there's always tomorrow. A chance will come. I knew it was a lie. Couldn't bring myself to admit it, but I knew. The lie kept me alive."

"I watched her. By the end of the first year it was obvious. She had no more control than I did, was just another dog for the military to unleash when it saw the need. Eliza hated it. I saw it in her face every time we were alone, that stoic look would just melt away. The way they used her, the mindless tedium, the fact that everything we did was worse than pointless. Just killing her wouldn't have changed anything."

"That's how I justified it, anyway. At that time we were still pretending we didn't know each other. I think it was a game, she wanted to see when I'd break. Doesn't change the fact that I spent my whole life with her. You have to understand. I've seen you with Kirk. The way you look at him, listen to every last thing he says, I was like that. He's killed so many, indirectly or otherwise, and nearly killed you too. After a couple months it just doesn't matter anymore, does it? You try to tell yourself you still hate them," Harper said, turning back and forcing himself to look at her, "that they're inhuman, that they deserve to die, but the words lose their meaning. Tell me it's not true."

Harper's scowl had collapsed, his face losing its harshness entirely, hands shaking at his sides. His eyes were fixed on her, almost pleading with her to understand. There was something terribly wrong with this scenario, her instincts said, that such an abrupt change in manner should've been concerning, but Regina barely noticed, absorbed as she was by the raw emotion in his words.

Around them the street was quiet, unnaturally so, but she could hear even more activity in the south. Looking over Harper's head, the artillery emplacements on the western command centre's walls had been positioned, openly ready to fire, as were the anti-air guns.

Whether it was pity or sympathy she felt, Regina couldn't say. "I'd never have believed it, but Kirk's not who I thought he was. He's sacrificed everything to prove it. Can you say the same for her? The same woman who's responsible for this? What does she ever lose? Everyone else suffers for her benefit." she said, pointing at the city around them with her maimed hand. There was smoke in the south, rising rapidly as they spoke. "That's what makes them different."

"I never could answer that one. You take something from Kirk and he doesn't stop until he has it back. Eliza's got nothing to sacrifice, you have to understand. None of it ever mattered to her, not the way she wanted it to." His voice was shaking now, each word said with difficulty, but with every pause he grew even less composed.

"You know when I stopped pretending I was going to kill her? Only a few weeks after her big promotion to lieutenant colonel she vanished. Took over a week off, wouldn't speak to anyone. So one night I found her apartment, some piece of shit place around here," he said with a dismissive wave at the stone buildings.

"I knew it was the perfect opportunity. Find her, cut her throat, run as far as I could. Never could forget what I saw. The place was a mess. Shutters down, hadn't been cleaned in months, nothing but dust and silence. I thought I had the wrong place, but she was there. Looked like she hadn't slept for days, was barely even dressed. People get this look, you know, when they're about to break. Try as much as you like, it's impossible to hide."

Regina did know. She'd seen it on Kirk's face under Ibis Island, interpreted it as arrogance. The depths of his hopelessness on that night had only become clear far too late. She could see the same thing on Harper's face as he spoke.

"I held her against the wall. Would've been so easy to snap her neck, but she didn't cry, didn't scream, didn't beg. Just watched me like I was doing her a favour," he said, scowling for a brief moment. "She was pathetic. Wrapped her cold hand around my arm even though she barely had the strength to stand. Can you imagine the things I was tempted to do? I told her I remembered everything, that I was going to show her how it felt. Would've made me feel good, if only for an hour. But I didn't do it. I threw her down and we stayed there, neither of us eating, or sleeping, even speaking. Eventually I said I wanted to prove I was a better person than she could ever be. What a load of shit. I couldn't do it on Ibis Island either. "

He paused, trying and failing to control his erratic breathing, and looked away for a long moment. His hastily said words gave Regina the impression he'd been desperate to share this for far too long. The familiar sound of fighting on the city streets erupted once more to the east. She barely noticed.

"After that I stopped caring. We spent every minute together, day and night. She started talking to me, actually talking, not the bullshit performances we all put on as officers. I've never met anyone like that. Someone who could be so cruel, and so insightful, and who lived with so much pain without ever knowing why. Didn't I deserve some happiness? But the guilt was always there. Still is, daring me to remember those memories fondly. It's enough to make you want to die. Apathy and despair. It's a precious thing, to share that with someone." He wiped his eyes, refusing to look away from her. "I thought you'd understand, but you won't. You're not like us, are you? Never were."

"Why couldn't you ever do it? Even at the end, on Ibis Island, did you still…?" Regina asked, feeling a growing tension in the air. Imagining either of them in that position, as abusive a relationship as it must have been, had forced everything else from her mind. It was fascinating, and undeniably perverse.

"Same reason I couldn't kill you. It wouldn't change a thing, would it? No matter how many people die, nothing changes. It was never the solution. Besides, Eliza was never afraid of dying. I never knew if my idea would work, but she said it gave her a reason to keep going. I wasn't going to stop her. She'd get back from meeting some higher up and we'd go up to the roof and laugh about it. I liked that. We were going to demolish the state, crush the military. All the oppression, all the lies. Just once we'd force them to admit it, and we'd force them to change. It became an obsession. The thing they never tell you about self-destruction is how good it feels. The last couple of months, though, I'd had enough. I tried to pretend I was better than her." He ran a hand over his face and laughed. "Just look at me and you'll see how well that's worked."

Remembering the calm woman she'd met during Royce's recruitment and the decidedly less composed woman who'd tortured her, Regina suspected that was true for Anders as well. "Why did you tell me this?" Ever since they'd met, Harper had refused to ever speak of his history, even to Jane. In his place, she knew she would never have shared this. Not with anyone. It was painful even to experience vicariously.

"We'll be parting ways soon. I wanted you to understand. Owed you that much," Harper said. For the first time Regina was sure Harper's smile wasn't feigned. His voice had stopped shaking, and he almost looked content.

The backstreet was empty, the only sound that of running water. She knew it would be impossible to outrun or outfight Harper now, but he was calmer than she'd expected. "It's already started, hasn't it? She told you. Of course she told you. What are you going to do?"

He nodded, ignoring her question. "Today's the day. Odd, isn't it? If Eliza was right they'll be approaching the southern outskirts as we speak. The city will fall by this time tomorrow. Royce's fleet will arrive within hours. I need to do this now, and I know you don't approve."

Regina stepped forward, feeling a surge of panic in her chest. Reaching to pull Harper to her, intent on changing his mind, reasoning with him, she stumbled as a series of deafening booms in the west threw them both back. The artillery battery on the southern wall of the command centre erupted, firing with incredible power toward the plains south of the city. She felt the rain return, but Harper ignored both the artillery and the weather, still staring intently.

More smoke rose from the eastern side of the city, and a series of armoured trucks passed at the far end of the street. Her thoughts turned away from the immediate danger, realising that she'd left Kirk alone with someone he trusted, someone who could easily kill him. She seized Harper's arm, and he didn't resist. "Tell me what you've done to him. What did Jane tell you? Is she—"

He gripped her other arm and pulled her across effortlessly. "Jane was never part of this. Never was, never will be. I want a world where people aren't raped and mutilated for the crime of being born in the wrong place. Do you oppose that? Stay out of my way until this is finished. And for what it's worth, I apologise."

A second burst of artillery, heavier than the last, fired with an ear-splitting blast. There had to be something she could say. What did he even plan to do? How could you guarantee the destruction of a nation state? He was past being reasoned with, she knew; the realisation filled her with bitterness. "What are you apologising for? You've never felt a second of remorse in your life. I understand why she was so attached to you."

Harper's smile faded. "Not finding an easier way to make this happen." His fist landed in Regina's stomach with a sickening thud and she fell back, gasping for breath and holding her abdomen. The pain was indescribable. Her leg collapsed, giving way at last, and she fell to one knee, throwing herself to the side in a desperate attempt to evade another blow.

Regina's injured hand wrapped around a streetlight and she pulled herself toward it; she heard a soft step behind and tried to turn around, to at least force him to look at her. A swift kick to her injured thigh was enough to put an end to that. She collapsed to the floor with an unrestrained cry, her leg searing as if it had been flayed. Her vision blurred, head hitting the ground with a sharp crack as she waited for the pain to subside, but it only worsened.

"Try to understand. I don't imagine you'll forgive me, but you're free. From me, from the state, from Eliza. I've given you that much, if nothing else," Harper said, almost apologetically. A third artillery barrage, this one even longer than the last, went all but unnoticed by them both.

Regina tried to pull herself upright, to tell him it would make no difference, but was barely able to look up. Resisting the urge to scream when she tried to move her leg and it convulsed, she heard Harper leave, running for the south-western end of the city and the warehouse, and once more collapsed against the damp stone, unable to do anything more than watch as he reached the end of the street and vanished from sight.


	24. Chapter 24

"Tell me that's not as stupid as it sounds," Edward Kirk said, lowering his voice to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Crouched in a dusty alley, his otherwise pleasant afternoon walk through the city streets had become a dangerous scramble for survival as they proceeded, left with no other choice, through the chaotic roads leading back to the industrial warehouse. Given its location, this was proving difficult.

"Do you have any better ideas? This is the only way," Jane said, pointing at a group of militia members headed east. He could see the grim, if not outright terrified, faces of the militiamen. Most of them would be dead before the day's end.

"And the others? We left them near the eastern barricades—"

"It's us you should be worried about. Harper's never let me down, but I don't know if I…" Jane said, losing confidence as she spoke and trailing off with another long glance at both ends of the street. The knife and pistol on her hip reassured him to a degree, but one person could only do so much. Her tone had changed with the first artillery strike. Nervousness or something else, he couldn't say.

"You've made it through far worse than this. Let's go," he said, making a break for a backstreet leading south. People were running from place to place, others staring blankly in fear and confusion. The least he could do was reassure her; their survival depended on clear thought, not brute force.

Neither of them knew why this was happening. At first he'd tried to reason that it could be a test firing, but the rising smoke and missile barrages from the northern mountain range put an end to that idea. He'd been so sure that they had weeks, even months. It'd been nothing more than delusion. He pushed past a growing crowd and reached a wide avenue leading from the eastern side of the city to the sea.

"Wait, don't go down there," Jane shouted from behind, and he pulled back immediately. Her hand wrapped around his arm and they stopped in time to realise the militia members stationed at the far end were retreating, pushed back to the secondary defences by an armoured assault. The military had finally moved to take back the western side of the city, evidently, clearing the way with ruthless efficiency.

He was covered in sweat, more from panic than exhaustion. Realising that if the military had moved this quickly Regina and Harper would be far more danger, he forced the thought from his mind. The aggressors shouted, pulling back too late to avoid being caught in an explosion which dismembered four of their allies. One man was pulled to safety, the armour covering his leg giving way to a mass of gore and bone.

"We'll head further west. They'll buy us enough time to make it through," he said, pointing at two armoured cars, one with a mounted machine gun attached. They blended in with the growing masses of panicked residents, at least until re-entering the industrial area.

Before long the specifics became unclear. They'd been running for far too long. He could barely breathe, was soaked in sweat and rainwater, and could feel a growing ache in his abdomen. Were they still headed west, or had they turned south? Who was attacking and what did they want? The air smelled of smoke and water, and the relentless firing of weapons lost its intensity, though in reality the further they ran the harsher the conditions became.

"Take a break here," Jane said, more for his benefit than her own. A militia checkpoint ahead was swarmed, fearful residents shouting and brandishing weapons, others simply fleeing while they could. Nobody else was traveling east, that much was clear. They slipped under the shelter of an enclosed yard away from the crowds.

"Is this how it was? Fighting in the north?" Edward asked, hands on his knees and breathing more heavily than he had in years.

Jane shook her head, far less exhausted. "Not yet. I think they just want to clear the way to the port. I hope that's all they want." Her hand was twitching again, he realised.

"The death camps come later, I suppose?" he said, stiffening at the flash of fear on her face. As if it wasn't hard enough for someone in her position.

"Not at all, I think," she said, far more softly. "These soldiers live here, don't they? I don't think they want to kill their own people."

"They've little choice. Citizens or deserters, those are their targets." The main road on the other side filled with armed troops, hastily clearing buildings to use as defensive positions.

"Maybe," Jane said, checking her pistol without enthusiasm. "The ones who disagreed left with Eliza. I hate that. She might not be rich and powerful, but that doesn't make her any better. Not caring isn't an excuse, not for what she let them do."

Edward didn't disagree, but her morose mood could easily jeopardise their chances even further. Consoling people was terribly difficult. "She's quite the manipulator, yes. Tells everyone she'll make their dreams come true. I wonder why." His heart rate hadn't dropped at all, he realised with a pained grimace.

Regina would be safe, surely. Harper could be trusted that far, and her instincts were the best he'd ever seen. What Kesler would do, he couldn't say. What Eliza would do, he certainly couldn't say, and that was especially dangerous. If she knew, and if she, or Mirzin, or any of them, found the Stabilizer before he returned… His entire plan had been founded on manipulation, but why should his assumptions be correct?

Well, at least they would know if the Third Energy was used. The enormous burst of blue light ought to be enough, but their use of such a remote island had been based on practical need. Unleashing an overload had always been conjectured to result in a geomagnetic storm, and such a thing over a populated city would have an obvious effect.

He was tired of waiting. "I need to call someone. Please, don't be alarmed. It's necessary," he said, retrieving the communicator.

Jane stared, eyes narrowed, but she didn't move. "I shouldn't trust you, should I? But I don't want to believe you lied to us. I'm so tired. Why couldn't we have just ran away? He didn't have to fight them." Her left hand was shaking, and her already pale face had grown even whiter.

Watching her carefully and using the same details for the second time that day, he brushed back his wet hair and held the device to his ear. A single shot fired outside startled Jane even further, and she jumped up to watch the entrance. This would have to be quick.

"Kirk, you're not dead?" said a harsh voice, distorted by the sounds of movement.

"Evidently not. It looks like the military's moving in, so this is our best chance," he replied, attempting to keep the details vague for Jane's benefit.

"They're trying to retake the port. Looks like we caught them on a bad day. Stay as far north as you can; they've turned that artillery on the southern district, and the fighting's moved to the streets. Anton's landed two battalions already and the garrison is trying to hold them off. Do we meet at your warehouse, or do you need extraction?" Kesler said, sounding even more distracted. He heard her shout something in the background.

"No, we'll do it as—actually, there's an address you need to check first." He gave her the location he'd left Regina at, realising she probably did need the help." Jane was watching curiously, but her hand was wrapped around the knife at her side, almost unconsciously testing the blade with her finger.

It took some convincing, but Kesler agreed to check the backstreet and signal Regina first before meeting at the warehouse. It was the best he could do with the available resources, or so he told himself. It would put Kesler in considerable danger. She would understand that better than he would, presumably, so it was hard to care.

"It's him, isn't it? That address. The military officer you had us meet in that hotel, you asked for his help? He'd go back for her, who else would?" Jane said, turning back with the knife loosely held in one hand.

That was an unfortunate deduction, particularly given how wrong it was. "No, anyone but him. I'd never involve him in this. Or anything else, if I could help it." Why was it so hard to simply tell her what he'd done? Even Kesler, his own ally, had been left uninformed—she wouldn't expect him to have company. All could be explained, of course; his intentions were perfectly legitimate, they would understand at the appropriate time.

"Is that so? I won't go back. Never again, so tell me it wasn't the military." Her voice was raised for the first time in his memory, tinged with panic. He tried to ask how long he could justify manipulating them, but it was hopeless.

He took a step back and she followed, more pleading than threatening. "It was the militia, they're on our side. I need to be sure they're alive, don't—" Edward began, attempting to placate her, but heavy steps from behind ruined his chances. Their raised voices had attracted unwanted attention.

"What are you doing back here?" a rough voice asked, pushing past and inhaling sharply when he saw the knife. A paramilitary uniform and rifle marked him as one of the deserters who'd joined the militia, but Jane didn't seem to notice, recoiling instantly. They'd stayed in one place for far too long.

"We're leaving. Come on," Edward said, but the soldier pushed him back, visibly on edge.

"Neither of you are going anywhere until I say you are. Drop the weapon," the soldier ordered, closing the distance between him and Jane. His intimidating persona only made the situation worse. Jane leapt forward with a panicked shout and he raised the rifle in response, but Edward's hand darted out and seized the rifle, pulling it up and redirecting the bullets into a brick wall. He braced himself for a counterattack, which almost came, but the man stiffened and lost his grip on the gun, his hand reaching for his stomach.

"What did you…?"

Jane's hand was buried in his abdomen, still wrapped around the bloodstained knife. "He attacked us, didn't he? I didn't want to do it, but he said we couldn't leave, that means we were their prisoners, he has a uniform, I remember this," she murmured, her shaking hand withdrawing as he fell to the ground in a spreading pool of blood. "Was it wrong? I didn't think…"

"You made the logical choice," he said, softly and calmly. Kneeling down next to her, he grabbed her sleeve, wet with the dying man's blood, and pulled her to her feet. "We need to run. They'll be coming, if we stay they'll capture us."

Never before had he said anything so motivating. Jane turned for the far end and sprinted away, leaving him to follow, but she was in far better physical condition. He looked down, startled to see the soldier's pained eyes staring back, and retrieved the sidearm from his hip. "I do apologise," he murmured, turning to follow her without another thought, leaving the man to bleed out.

Any considerations for caution had been abandoned, at least on her part. As predicted, the south-west was increasingly dangerous. Mostly industrial to begin with, there were no crowds to use as cover. Nearing their destination, he realised the source of so much of the smoke choking his lungs was an apartment complex that had been set ablaze during a protracted firefight which had yet to finish. A small group wearing indigo were fighting off an advance from their end.

"Wait, would you just stop? This is ridiculous," he shouted, drawing her attention at last. The road was clearly blocked to all but the most suicidal. The sudden retreat of the fighters on their end, more than half their number dead, convinced him to pull them both back, but her arm stiffened at his touch.

"I don't know what to do. They'll find us no matter where we go, it's a trap, why didn't I ever tell him?" Jane whispered, eyes darting from street to street, a growing expression of hopelessness overtaking her. They were less than five minutes from the warehouse but, even if they reached it, was she right? What hope did they have?

"We'll find him. If we run we might be caught; if we stay here we'll be dead. We'll find a way through," he said, raising his voice to be heard and attracting the attention of the retreating soldiers.

"I wouldn't recommend that," one of them, a tall woman holding a rifle at her side. Seeing the terrified expression on Jane's face, she looked back and held the barrel to the floor, directing the other three to do the same. Edward was extraordinarily thankful for this concession, but remained silent for a long moment.

"Is that so?" he finally said. "Then why were you trying to break through?"

She grinned, far too cheerfully for his liking. "We're looking for someone. You can tag along, if you like. We'll be trying the backstreet a few hundred metres north of here, but you'd better have a good reason for it. Ceremonial guard, what the hell are they doing here?"

"We do. I appreciate the offer," he replied, nearly sighing in relief. They were, after all, under the militia's protection. Jane was no less tense, but didn't protest. Falling behind them, he realised there were a dark purple streak running through her hair and shifted his hand down to the stolen pistol. He'd met so few militiamen; why was this one familiar? The presence of that particular unit, all deserters, was even less comforting.

For a short time they followed her lead, making decent progress and avoiding the state's soldiers entirely. The periodic bursts of artillery, now accompanied by return fire, made it easy to remain unheard, but it was far too chaotic to make any real judgements. A growing feeling of helplessness was making it even more difficult to remain calm.

"Wait here," their guide ordered, coming to a stop at the corner of the backstreet they'd reached. To their surprise, the larger road beyond was entirely empty. The military looked to be moving further south as time passed. Whether that was a good sign or not, he'd lost the ability to tell.

"Who are you? I know I've seen you before," he asked, lowering his voice to avoid alarming the others. It seemed a poor decision.

She looked over her shoulder, mildly surprised. "You have? I'm just looking for a friend of mine. Rough day for all of us, huh? I don't think anybody expected this. My name's Lyra, if it matters, and it doesn't."

Lyra sent two of her underlings to scout the road, and he tried to avert his eyes from the warehouse. They would have to part ways without revealing their destination. Her explanation was as vague as he'd expected. Jane tugged on his shirt; looking back, she wouldn't speak, but seemed to have calmed down. That made the fear in her face even more concerning.

"Looks like the way's clear. We're going east for a while," Lyra said, wiping the sweat from her face. Making a serviceable excuse, Edward watched her carefully, but she simply nodded, wished them good luck, and left with her soldiers.

"Something's wrong. Someone lied to us," Jane said the moment they were out of hearing range. "I don't care about your plans anymore, I just don't want to be here. You've never seen this. This is how it always starts. You think you're fine but you're not and then they come out and surround you and—" She cut herself off with effort, suppressing the panic.

"I'm more familiar with that than you might think." He took the first step onto the open road and watched as Lyra's group vanished at the far end. "Come on. They ought to be back by now." Not only that, Harper would know how to handle whatever trauma his friend was experiencing far more capably. It was uncomfortable, seeing her in such an unbalanced state and, to his surprise, not just for her reduced usefulness. Another delusion, surely. Harper's stated intent from the beginning had been to use the Third Energy; this would be his best chance. Could he be persuaded otherwise?

In any other circumstances it would have been an entirely mundane affair, approaching the heavy side door to an unmemorable warehouse. Seeing it slightly ajar, the rain tapping against the rusted metal, he desperately wished for an excuse not to enter.

"Are you willing to wait here? I need you to watch the street; we may still be at risk. I've only done what I had to do. Try to understand that." It was difficult to say the words, daring to ask for her trust under these circumstances, having hidden both his intentions and his actions.

Grasping his shoulder, the bloodstained sleeve falling to reveal the mass of scars beneath, she nodded. "I don't," Jane tried to say, hesitating for a long moment. "I don't want to see you fighting. Maybe that's selfish, but I couldn't take it. I can't let anyone else die for this."

He knew it wouldn't be that simple. So did Jane, judging from her tired smile. Slipping through to the inside, his emaciated frame finally proving itself useful, he stood still for a moment, adjusting to the gloom. Everything seemed as it was when he left. It all felt so long ago. Their enemies had been clear, their objectives unaligned but tangible. His uncertainly, expressed at last in the rainswept streets to Regina, was the only source of consistency left.

A loud crash came from the back, swiftly followed by another. The larger space at the front was empty, but the concrete floor had been stained by someone's wet boots. Only one pair, he realised with a sinking feeling in his stomach, drawing the stolen pistol.

"I understand why you feel this is necessary, but I can't let it happen," he said, entering the enclosed area at the back with the gun raised. His clothes were soaked and he smelled faintly of smoke even from a distance. Standing with the black case in his hand, Harper turned halfway to face him.

"Are we enemies? I see no reason for hostility," Harper said, opening the case with one hand and exposing the devices. "But I won't insult you by relying on your better instincts." He pulled the Stabilizer out and held it above the ground. "How fragile is it? I never bothered to ask, but you look rather pale."

"That's hardly a convincing threat when you have as much to lose as I do."

"Neither is that pistol. I'll ask again: is there a reason for hostility?" Harper's voice was calm, even smooth, but the muscles in his jaw were clenched with barely concealed anger.

"There shouldn't be. You know what happens if you go back. Look at what she did to Regina in two days. How do you imagine you'll—"

"I don't care," Harper said, taking a step closer. "I might be tortured and killed. I doubt it, if you want the truth." He shrugged. "If not, she'll still do what I can't. We have the same goal, you see. I realise that now."

"Then tell me. Why are you alone? I left you—"

Harper interrupted, glancing at the both doors. "I left Regina alone in the streets. I left Jane with you, because I knew she'd fall apart when the fighting started. I knew you wouldn't leave her behind. You're not who I thought you were, Kirk, and if you want an excuse to kill me you'll have to try harder than that." Another step, and the hand holding the gun faltered.

Harper returned the Stabilizer to the case and closed it. His gaze shifted to stare at the warehouse behind, one hand in his jacket pocket. He stepped forward again, a gleam of desperation in his grey eyes. "Imagine the lives we could have had. You'd never have been forced to develop weapons, Regina could have lived a normal life, not been turned into a murderer. So many have died for _nothing_, are still dying, and you don't see why we have to put an end to it?"

"You're right. It can't be allowed to continue, but your method isn't a solution. It's a fantasy designed to indulge your desire for vengeance without the slightest concern for what happens to the rest of us. The world doesn't end with your death; the rest of us have to keep on going."

"Then how do you suggest we do it? How could it possibly be worse than this?"

"We do what we can to ensure the state and the military collapse. They're fighting to make that happen as we speak. We find and kill Eliza Anders before she can sabotage their revolution, as she has already done and will continue to do." He realised while speaking that these words weren't manipulation, that he genuinely believed this had to be done, that perhaps they would have agreed had he only suggested it, and sighed. "And we erase all knowledge of the Third Energy's destructive power. It was only ever an energy project."

He took a step to the side. Another burst of artillery was answered by a series of roaring blasts in the west, and it was difficult to hear anything past the noise. The realisation that both Regina and Kesler may have died in the fighting refused to leave his mind. If that was so, it was still worth trying.

"Is that so?" Harper asked, finally calm. "Then prove it." He leapt forward to one side, hand still in his pocket, and threw the case down. Edward pulled his arm up, fully intending to shoot, but it wouldn't move and he was thrown backwards by an unavoidable punch to the chest, his head hitting the floor with a crack, bringing the second attacker down with him.

"I told you I wouldn't let this happen," Jane shouted, holding his arm down with surprising strength. "There are soldiers coming, both of you need to stop before—"

But Harper ignored her and ran for the case, seizing it and turning back to look at them. "Get the pistol, Jane, we're leaving," he said, as Edward pulled it away and broke her grip.

If only he could keep him here a few moments longer it would surely be enough. "Just stay where you are," he spat, but Jane let out an anguished cry and threw him back down, holding his arm to the floor again.

"I won't let you do it. We all have to leave, why aren't you listening? It's going to happen again, just stop fighting," she said, panicking even more, and they struggled for a moment before he saw Harper turn toward the rear door.

If he left now it would have all been for nothing, but it had gone so terribly wrong, Edward realised, and he punched Jane in the stomach to push her off. It wasn't enough. Harper turned back in fury as he knew he would; she ignored the pain, shaking as she slammed his wrist into the concrete, sending the gun spinning to one side. "Just stop, I can make him listen, I know I can," she whispered, voice quivering, but they continued struggling. It was too late.

Harper pulled back, a look of repulsion overtaking him as he looked over them and recoiled, but they barely noticed, both reaching for the weapon. Jane pulled it to her and crushed his fingers in her other hand. Hearing boots on concrete he stiffened in panic, subduing a pained shout, and attempted to roll away. Her eyes were wide with panic, shaking hands grasping the pistol with one knee on his chest. Harper shouted something that neither of them heard. Edward tried to push her off, only worsening her terror, and she pressed the pistol into his stomach, holding him to the floor with her other hand.

A single shot was fired and Edward recoiled in shock, his shirt covered in blood and gore, reaching to feel for a wound that wasn't there. Jane remained still, eyes widening even further, her lips mouthing voiceless words. The pistol slipped from her fingers and for the briefest moment he didn't understand.

An anguished scream dispelled any lingering doubts. Jane remained prone, removing one hand slick with blood from under her coat. Four people were standing behind the entrance, the leader taking a step back with a raised pistol. Harper lunged forward and was almost shot, so deranged was his expression, but he ignored them all and embraced his friend as she sat unmoving, eyes fixed on the rear wall.

Nearly collapsing as he did so, Edward stood up with the pistol in his hand, though he too was shaking. His eyes met the grim face of his saviour. Andrea Kesler and three allies had returned, as promised, and he saw a shadowy figure behind them all. Jane's arms moved, slowly and clumsily, and wrapped around Harper, who'd buried his face in her bloodstained coat.

"I didn't anticipate this. How could I have missed…" he whispered, looking back at Kesler, anywhere but below. "I didn't mean for this—"

After all this, his attempts to keep all of them as content as he could, for such a result… He covered his face, unable to look at any of them.

"Get the case. If we don't leave now we can't leave at all, Kirk," Kesler said, but her harsh, commanding tone was gone. For the first time in his memory she looked disturbed. If he'd told Jane what he'd done would that have…? His hands shook. Kesler's group were paralysed, unmoving.

Jane whispered something in Harper's ear and he stiffened, holding her even closer, before looking up into her pale face. "We should never have started this," she murmured, leaning on him and resting her head on his shoulder. "We could have found somewhere worth living, but I knew it wouldn't be enough. Just this once, I want you to listen. Don't blame them for our mistakes." The blood had spread down her coat, beginning to pool on the floor, and her words were starting to slur.

Harper tried to respond, he saw, heard him take a deep breath, but the words wouldn't come. His breathing was laboured, one hand tracing her face while he held her upright. Regina was staring at him from the door, her face an emotionless mask. It was a lie. He could see the pity in her eyes, and the pain.

Jane slumped down even further, breathing erratically, and would've fallen if not for Harper's support, though he was shaking as he held her. "I'm glad it could be with you. That's enough for me. It always was."

He wanted to say something. To explain himself, to redeem himself. Kesler's men had lowered their weapons, as had she. Regina pushed past and looked down at them both, but there was nothing she could do. It was far too late for regrets, but the conflict outside had continued without a moment of hesitation.

Regina's stare was controlled but he understood its meaning. There was nothing more that needed to be said. She had understood. His intentions, his reasoning, what had happened and why. At the very least, she hadn't judged him for it. The disgust and self-righteousness he'd seen when they first met was gone, and had been for a long time. What that made them now, he'd never known.

The side wall of the warehouse exploded inward with a deafening blast, showering them in rubble and dust. Kesler's men positioned themselves to defend themselves, retreating to the front door. She shouted something at him, but it went unheard, and pulled Regina with her, the two of them narrowly avoiding a burst of bullets. The last he saw of her was a regretful smile, and the two of them fled through the side door, covered by the soldiers.

He attempted to step away, so tired he could barely move, but Harper seized his arm and threw him back, rising as he did so. "Your way or mine. Which will it be?" Harper said, stretching out his bloodstained hands and standing over Jane's prone body. His eyes gleamed with a feverish energy, but focused solely on the man directly before him.

It was over within seconds. Harper seized the case containing the devices and ran for the rear door. For the first time in his life the prospect of killing someone, doing so for his own benefit, wasn't enough. His adversary slipped through the rear door with both devices and vanished into the war-torn city beyond. He'd raised the pistol, his finger was held against the trigger, but he'd lost the desire to kill the man.

The short-lived gunfight behind had finished. With a last look at the open door and the dull afternoon light outside, Edward turned around and knelt down. Six armoured soldiers watched, their rifles aimed at him, and he threw the pistol aside. Regina had escaped, as had Kesler. They would do what he couldn't.

"Edward Kirk?" a soft voice asked. Looking up he saw the same woman from before, freshly equipped in military uniform. It wasn't a surprise. Of course they'd found him. How arrogant they'd been, pretending they could outrun the state. In his life, it had never once worked.

He placed a hand on Jane's neck, but her skin was cool and still. Her preference, Edward recalled, was to die rather than return a captive. Had she ever wanted anything else? He'd never asked. Standing up, he pulled his face into a mockery of a smile and returned Lyra's cautious stare.

She lowered the rifle, head shifting to one side. She couldn't understand. Even so, she'd lost her cheerful manner, watching him with remorse. Why would she care?

He watched her for a long moment. If he'd ruined them all for this path, furthering the damage by sharing his secrets with this military filth was the last thing he'd ever do. But behind her another man entered, tall and muscular.

"Hold the exterior, Ackerman. Have second squad follow the targets but remain out of sight," the man ordered, the navy blue, almost grey, uniform marking him as their leader. Business as usual, of course, for the military. Another burst of artillery served to punctuate his thought, and he scowled at the sound as the weapons had been fired solely to mock him.

With a last glance between them both, Lyra turned to comply with a nod, taking her five soldiers outside. The respect conveyed in that gesture infuriated him.

"I told you to leave this behind." Gail asked, looking at Jane's still body with undisguised pity. "It was for your own benefit, and hers. But you were too arrogant to see it, so sure you could handle this yourself. I don't know what she sees in you."

"Arrogance? Perhaps you're right," he said, meeting the older man's hard eyes. "You know what the Third Energy is. Do you how it weighs on you, having created something like that? It's your responsibility, they say, and I finally believe them."

He waved at the surroundings, grim as they were. "I thought it would work. That I could hide its existence and satisfy them all in the process. But we can't impose our ideals on others, can we? It was always going to come to this… I didn't want to admit how little I could do to stop it."

"Who did this?"

"Does it matter? Any number of people could be blamed, but what does it change? She's past caring." He paused for breath, watching the rain enter through the hole in the wall. "We're guilty of the same crime, aren't we? Had you only ever explained yourself to Regina she'd never have ended up here. Had I done the same for them, well, who can say? Loathsome, isn't it?"

He leaned against the wall and sank down. What hope did they have if Harper reached the generator? Whatever Eliza had done down there since assuming control would only serve to aid him, even if they were still enemies.

"What changed? I need to know why this happened."

He laughed, surprised it was so difficult to see. "He intends to use the Third Energy to destroy both the state and its military, and so does the woman who sparked this revolution. Do you know, I think your old friend Anton is the only one who ever thought of reforming society, but he's in for quite the surprise."

"Did you mean what you said?"

Looking back at Gail, he turned his head in surprise. "That depends entirely on what you think I said."

"That you would hide the existence of the Third Energy. Give up the only thing you ever worked for." He'd never heard Gail speak this way. Never believed it possible. What had happened to the unthinking, unfeeling man who'd hunted him down on Ibis Island?

"What am I giving up? I was like him, you must know. The Borginians hated us, and I could have given them the only thing they needed to tear this country apart. Now, just like then, I couldn't do it. I had the chance and I refused. And now, like then, it was all for nothing. Does that mean nothing I do makes any difference, that it's all wasted effort?"

Gail's shadow loomed over him, and the older man pulled him to his feet. The conflict outside had grown worse, he could hear, but neither of them could care. It all felt so distant.

"Let's get moving," Gail said, turning back and calling in his ally. Lyra returned, looking between them carefully without speaking. "I'll be meeting second squad. I want you to take him to western command. Directly to the general, nobody else. Understood?"

"Wait, you don't have the right to—"

"I'm not sending you back as a prisoner." Gail's harsh exterior had lost its edge. "You never forget what you've done, not for a moment, no matter how many times you justify it to yourself, say it was necessary. We brought this on ourselves, expecting we could just hide what we'd done and pretend everyone else would do the same. Hard not to think we deserve this. "

Gail paused, looking down and away from them both. "I need you to convince General Hereson that your research had nothing to do with weapons development. It may not be enough, but it's all we can do. Give the military an excuse to hold back. If the state falls, you'll be a position to convince Colonel Royce of the same thing. They'll listen to reason, even if they don't believe you."

"You sound like you're not coming back," Lyra said, so softly they barely heard her.

"I'll say this much: whether the military falls or not, this isn't working. Nothing we've tried has ever made a difference, each year worse than the last. If it's treasonous to say it, so be it. I've fought for twenty years, and this is what I've earned," Gail said, turning away at last. "Anders will be there. She'll be waiting for her chance, and I won't give it to her. We'll meet again, Kirk. I expect you to keep your word."

Edward watched as he left through the rear door. Everything he'd ever believed about the man had been wrong. Gail's motivations, his thoughts, his desires. It was as true of him as it was for Regina, and Jane, and even Harper. How had it been so difficult to understand? His entire life had been taken away, broken down and rebuilt, and only then had it became clear. The man he had been was pitiful; his strength, supposed independence, were nothing more than comfortable masks to hide his powerlessness.

Regina was gone, as was Kesler and the militia, and even Gail. It was unlikely that any of them would ever return. Even if he had done this differently, he reflected, there was no guarantee that the outcome would been any more favourable. He was one of many, simply doing what he thought was best, as were they all. Was that what Regina had wanted him to understand?

And if they'd simply left, ran while they had the chance as Jane had said to Harper in her dying moments? Living for the sake of being alive had no appeal, he knew, no matter how much they suffered for their perseverance. It was painful. Hurt so much he could barely breathe, but he felt alive. Like his existence mattered, to somebody, in some small way. He couldn't give that up.

"It's time to leave. Royce's army was headed north when we left, and I don't think we can stop them," Lyra said, looking mournfully at the open door. His eyes were fixed on Jane's corpse, laying still in a pool of blood. She waited, hesitating. "I want to change the system from the inside. He does too, I know he does. Even General Hereson thinks we can make it work." Her words were cautious, as if she wanted to convince herself more than anyone else.

"I don't believe it can be done. It's far too late for that," Edward replied. "True as that may be, the Third Energy is best forgotten, at least as it is. If I can do that much, perhaps it'll be enough."

Her curious expression was a source of relief. For so long he'd simply been hated, despised for his mannerisms, his ideology, even his refusal to submit to blind nationalism. It seemed absurd to think that for the first time in his life he was listened to with respect and understanding.

Gail wasn't wrong. There was much he could do if given the opportunity to speak to the men controlling these armies, and there was far less he could achieve by confronting Harper again. There was an entire world around him, moving with or without his influence, and each of its inhabitants had their own desires and fears, things he couldn't change at will.

Even so, he knew, Regina had proven to him that they could be understood and appreciated. The possibility that her theory, useful as it had been, fell short of the reality was undeniable. She had, after all, ended up in the exact same position, approving of and assisting with his failed plan.

Eliza Anders knew this. Here he'd been this entire time, stumbling from failure to failure, attempting to change every person he met, to force them to see the world as he did or lying and acting as if they knew the truth. It had never once worked. She'd used them all, always hidden, always supported—often by those much more powerful than herself—and he'd been crawling through mud from the very beginning. How stupid did he think they were to imagine they'd not noticed those lies? Eliza had said as much: this was why she'd abandoned Royce, and Gail had lost control through the same methods. He wasn't so different. He wasn't superior.

Give others the opportunity to fulfil their own desires, clear the path, and they won't resist. This was how she'd beaten them, and it was why she wouldn't be waiting for them at the generator buried under the coast. There was no need when she understood what they wanted, and what they knew, and what they would do. She'd give them all what they wanted most, but it would feel hollow and meaningless once done. Understanding this he couldn't help but smile, and Lyra looked at him questioningly, but he saw no need to trouble her with his thoughts. Soldier or not, he couldn't feel contempt for them anymore.

They turned to leave, Lyra walking behind him with her rifle held in both hands. Edward stopped one last time and looked to his right. Jane's face was obscured by her long hair, as she so often preferred, with her coat concealing her body. Had her death meant anything, made any difference? It should have meant something, he wanted to believe, holding the edge of the iron door to steady himself and emerging into the cool afternoon air.

The rest of her soldiers returned, obscured behind masks and armour, and they began the journey east to the besieged fortress that was the foundation of the military's political power. He made no attempts to resist, deferring to their expertise as they traversed the war-torn streets. As they passed into the elevated eastern streets, he turned and saw that the fleet had indeed arrived and could be seen in the distant seas to the south. With each moment it looked more likely that he'd be addressing his statement to Anton Royce. Having never met the esteemed general, he found that prospect less daunting than it should have been. Anton had always been fond of compromise, if nothing else.

The strong smell of smoke blended with the incessant rain, but he barely noticed. "It can't be allowed to continue, can it? I think I always knew." Lyra remained silent, a grim look on her youthful face. Left with only the long road to the gleaming white fortress ahead, he pushed past his weariness and continued without another word.


	25. Chapter 25

_Note: REVISED as of 20/3/15, additional 4500 words at end, no other changes. This was the original plan for this chapter anyway, necessary to cull the length of the next and because this entire negotiation scene is best kept together. It's too thematically different from the rest of the next chapter to justify leaving it there, or so it seems to me.  
_

In the chaos there was nobody left to judge the outsider covered in filth, his bloodstained clothes clinging to a gaunt frame. Unceasing rain dampened many of the city's worst fires, but the air distinctly smelled of smoke even from their height. Covering his ears as they fired another round of artillery at an armoured column approaching from the south-western coast, Edward Kirk could see as well as any of them that the military was on the losing end. It was written on the face of every soldier he passed.

It was difficult to care. Their methods were as brutal as ever, moving to destroy the western militia—a group formed from despairing citizens wishing for change—the moment it became politically viable to do so. He scowled involuntarily, raising a hand to shield himself from the rain. Without Kesler's leadership their prospects were even poorer. As it was, he was content with his own situation, overlooking the besieged city below from the elevated heights of the western command centre.

He could see the coast, though it was too far to make out much more than the outline in the poor conditions. If Gail wasn't a liar he would be attempting to stop Harper with or without Regina. She might choose to flee, he considered, but not for more than a moment. When had Regina ever fled? Her determination was a source of fascination, even envy. Perhaps she was simply better at concealing her doubts.

"Time's up, Kirk. We've got to get moving," a woman said, raising her voice to be heard past the uproar.

Edward turned back to face his escort, freshly returned from the heavily guarded main building. Distinguishing one uniform from another through the crowd was difficult. Lyra's refusal to treat him as a prisoner was making it difficult to despise her. Undoubtedly she thought this was the right thing to do, with rationale that was justified by her own experiences.

They approached the main building, escorted by the same three soldiers who'd survived the streets below. He could still see the poorly reconstructed plaza, ruined and tarnished in a spectacle the military had never quite managed to explain. It had been cleaned, but not well enough. Eliza had a talent for theatrics, and for diverting blame. Gail would have been sure to tell them everything he knew about her. The trouble was, he knew next to nothing of worth.

"I haven't been here for nearly four years. Not once did I miss it. In Borginia they liked to hide anything important underground. Only now do I appreciate their reasoning," Edward said, more to himself than anyone else.

Lyra seemed to find that amusing. "You get used to it eventually. Although I only moved up here recently. Promoted two ranks at once so Gail could have some infantry support. Now that they've moved Liebert's northerners in here too I guess I'm not needed in the garrison," she said, as they passed through a security checkpoint, emerging on the crowded ground floor.

"Nepotism," he murmured, struggling to focus on the surroundings. Lyra raised an eyebrow and he glanced over in surprise.

"I'm not Gail's daughter, if that's what you're implying," Lyra said. He shook his head in confusion, the mistake only becoming clear after a long moment of thought. The palatial surroundings, tangible air of tension or not, had no effect on him. If anything the opulence felt alien, unwelcoming, and his time spent in the squalor below only reinforced this. None of them ever questioned it.

"No, I suppose not. I'm not usually so…" he gestured hopelessly, failing to communicate the concept, but she looked sympathetic, frowning slightly.

"I know what you mean, just take it easy, okay? You've been through, well, I don't really know, but it didn't look good. I expect there's some shock. Pretending you're fine only works for so long, and the general's smart. Really smart. He'll see through any mistakes you make even before you do."

An audience with a military officer who, through various machinations, appeared to have gathered up more far more political power than any one man ought to have. Of course, given the situation Hereson's power was rather limited. Mentioning that would be a poor move, or so his mind told him, but it would be satisfying to see that he wasn't the only one who'd lost it all.

How Gail had risen through the ranks so quickly, unofficial promotions or not, eluded him. He suspected Lyra knew as much as he did: absolutely nothing, and didn't bother asking. Following her through the crowds, they reached a wide row of elevators at the rear of the hall and waited for one in particular to arrive.

The sense of isolation was growing. He'd been alone for so long, with only those sharing his circumstances for company. How could he have ever understood what they were fighting for? It was undoubtedly possible if Eliza had convinced so many to follow her while believing in nothing herself. In all that time, he'd never once tried to understand their perspectives. If Harper hadn't been so blatant about his ambitions he'd likely have missed even that.

He could see Lyra's growing concern. Rumination and irritability. Often it seemed that they were experienced vicariously by the people around him, and so few had ever understood why. Regina had, of course, and her apparent immunity to his foul moods had only helped. He felt so little, but was unable to twist his face into anything other than an irritable scowl.

When the elevator finally arrived he wasn't even searched for weapons. Not that there anywhere to hide them. His clothes were drying, but his abdomen was stained a dull red. It attracted no real attention. More than one he'd seen on the ground floor was similarly blemished. Many barely seemed to care, staring back with the same indifference he knew showed in his own face.

"We're going up to the roof. This is a private audience, and I don't think you're the only guest."

It didn't come as a surprise. Nothing had for some time. "I understand. You should know, blatant manipulation has had rather drastic consequences in my recent history," he said, slipping past her and entering the absurdly well-decorated elevator. "I'm not as interpersonally gifted as you might hope."

"It's not my place to say it, but you don't seem so bad," Lyra said, swiping a keycard as the doors closed. "Gail's trusting us to do this, and I don't think he trusts anyone. You must have done something right."

"It's that bad, is it?"

"Yeah. You're happy about that, I know. I don't blame you."

He wanted to be happy about that. It would be a logical reaction, but he felt none of the expected satisfaction. Would Regina's group be approaching the generator, or had it all been an elaborate trap? He tried to think of something else, hand twitching at his side. The elevator's lighting flickered for just a moment, and so did Lyra's controlled expression.

The doors opened, revealing a polished marble hall leading to two doors. Their steps echoed off the walls and he slowed to a stop, momentarily stunned. They were on a level of the command centre he hadn't ever seen, emerging on a large viewing platform on the rooftop.

Standing at the far end of the platform was a lone man watching the northern sky, his back turned on them. His hair was grey, a navy blue overcoat billowing in the wind. The light rain had yet to stop, but he looked not to have noticed, staring out at the mountain range to the north. From their altitude a second artillery battery could be seen near the military base in the mountain range. It had yet to fire once.

It was an impressive sight, if that was the general's intention. He looked every part the leader he was, distinguished and capable. Edward was unintimidated by the grandiose spectacle before him, making no attempt to hide his presence. Lyra followed ever so slightly behind.

"Right," he heard her whisper, and indeed there was another man standing next to a second elevator to their far right. A calm, controlled expression, short red hair: he was even more familiar, something of a minor celebrity in Merestan for his frequent appearances on the state channel. Those had ceased in recent times, but he looked no worse for the change in career, watching them closely with one hand on a holstered pistol.

Stopping at a respectful distance, they watched until the general turned to face them. It was an unusual feeling, meeting the man who'd indirectly controlled the nation he'd despised for more years than could be remembered.

James Hereson was a tall man, his dignified posture only serving to highlight that feature. His face was angular, hair and moustache heavily greying, and he looked older in person than in the media's portrayals. His eyes were sharp and focused, scanning them both as he watched, completely silent. Edward had the distinct impression that he had been analysed and judged within the space of a second. Under Hereson's overcoat was an officer's uniform, richly decorated and well-fitted.

"We found him, sir," Lyra said, her voice shaking slightly. "Gail's hunting down the second target now."

"Results at last. I appreciate the chance for closure," the general said, his voice calm and commanding. "I am General James Hereson, sole commander of the Alvernian military." He held out his gloved hand and Edward shook it, the general seemingly oblivious to the filth and blood covering his guest. It was almost disarming, given the arrogance and pomposity he'd expected. And yet Hereson's use of the phrase sole commander implied the rest of the command chain had been disposed with. Charming or ruthless? The answer was both, as usual, and he was expected to understand this.

"All this time I was wondering what I'd missed," James Hereson said, looking back at the northern mountains, far more peaceful than the southern, obscured side. "I saw Anton and his deserters looming on the border, closer each day, and in the shadows there you were. Not just you. Others, more than I'll ever know. Far too many mistakes were made before this could happen."

Hereson sighed, and Edward stepped up to the edge with him. The armed assistant watched, emotionless, and he realised the general was remarkably undefended. Hereson's slight smile was enough to show he wasn't the only one thinking this.

"I know who you are. He's convinced it's important to understand this, more so than either of us know. Is he right?" His statement was punctuated by the distant sounds of conflict in the south. Their choice of location, facing away from the fighting, was surely intentional.

"I'm not the one leading an army against you."

"No, which is why you're interesting. I don't handle the details myself. This is why you have subordinates, but I expect you would know that. I set the strategy, they implement it. A scientific career shares similarities, don't you think? Certainly so in Borginia."

He was tired of these games. "Why are you holding back? This is a fraction of the army you command. I have difficulty believing you didn't see this coming."

"This is not a problem that can be solved by unleashing ten thousand rifleman, and if you haven't seen that yet I'm wasting my time."

"I do see that," Edward replied, softly and calmly. "It was important to know whether you did."

Hereson looked to his left and laughed. "Well, he said you weren't stupid. I could do it, of course. Not today, but it wouldn't be long. Their revolution would be over, tens of thousands dead, and that would be the end of it. I could seize total control in the process, wrest it away from the elected figureheads, and take what little power they haven't surrendered. Such a simple thing to do, and don't think they're not waiting for the order."

The general sighed, his gaze moving back to the mountains. "For so long they told me it was coming. How could the military be allowed to maintain political power? Each year we took more. The issue would have to be resolved, all agreed, but that was it. What did they propose I do instead? We were never ideal rulers, but the alternatives were undeniably worse. I have to thank them for forcing the issue. I would never have done it."

"You don't mean to say you're reluctant to fight? What guarantee is there that they'll produce anything better than this?"

"There is no guarantee. To push them back, however, I'd be ordering my soldiers to cut down their own people in the streets. Why would they listen? So many have deserted already. I suspect enough of them would obey, and several of my officers urge me to give the order, even the man managing the defence, but what benefit is there? There was a time when this could have worked, and it's long since passed," Hereson said, clasping his hands behind his back. The general's age showed with each movement, but he sounded relieved.

The looming shadow in his mind gave way to the reality standing before him, far more nuanced. Hereson was not the aspiring dictator he'd expected, grasping for power for its own sake, he was simply a man in an unwinnable position faced with two choices, neither of which would be optimal. If he attacked, what little pretence of legitimacy the government still had would crumble, and the military would be forced to take its place. If they relented they would lose the western district, effectively the entire nation.

"This is why I'm here, isn't it? You know there's more to this than the surface conflict, but you don't know what. If you go forward with either option there's no way to know what happens next. It would be reckless to make either choice." It sounded bitterly reminiscent of his own recent history.

Another long sigh. "I expect I'll know before the end. War is rarely so simple. We all learn this, sooner or later, and this is no different. Perhaps Anton really is an idealist hoping to change society. There are others, and they will use the pretence of ideology to take what they want, as they always do."

"As you've done," He understood, far more than he'd expected to. What use was there for indignation? The general had attempted to have him killed, he remembered all too well. It was difficult to care. In his position, it was only logical.

"Indeed I have. Orchestrating wars, falsifying justification, manufacturing consent. Borginia never deserved what we did to them, but it was necessary. Had I pulled back we'd have lost far too much. It was the same in the north, but I had the good sense to delegate that to my subordinates. I can pretend I don't know what happened there, but you must know what we did. The public needed to believe it was justified, that they deserved what happened. How could they go on otherwise? I protected them from the truth."

"They do know. The victims of those conflicts, and those who made them happen, are still alive. It was fascinating, to see how deeply they loathe you. I thought I was one of them, but I'm not. I don't have to be. It's enough to understand them; the rest is simple enough."

Hereson snorted in derision. "Now you sound like her. But enough of that. I know you have the information I need. If they're not loyalists and they're not revolutionaries then I need to know what they want. It should be simple enough. Most men are easily bought."

"Did you think I would reveal some great conspiracy, that they were plotting to usurp you at the first opportune moment? Not all motivations are rational. Not the way we might expect. Is power inherently desirable? Is anything? Those are the questions they want you to ask." Didn't he understand? They had no interest in material gain, could never be bought.

'But there is a conspiracy, isn't there?" Hereson asked, turning away from the northern view. The medals on his uniform came into view, but he could see the man took no real pride in them. It was all manufactured, the physical embodiment of a leader down to the last detail.

"Is there?" Edward asked, glancing at their silent onlookers. Lyra's face was tense, but there was a hint of fascination in her eyes as she watched them. Hereson's assistant was no more cheerful than before, his eyes shifting from them to the far elevator more than once. "I suppose there must be. Do you know who to blame for this conspiracy?"

"I know who convinced half our garrison to defect and slaughter the city's political and economic elite. I know this person did so specifically because I was negotiating for a peaceful reform process and she wanted it put to an end. I know she's responsible for this, but I don't know why. If I attempt to do so again, in any way, I can't proceed until that threat is eliminated. Can you guarantee that?"

If that was his grand hope for this interview, the general was going to be solely disappointed. Gail had given him a different impression, one that involved far more lying. Attempting to manipulate a man such as this would be a mistake, surely. Had Gail not seen that, or was he simply desperate?

"No, I can't. I didn't see it coming either, not until she mutilated one of my companions only for the other two to reveal she'd done far worse to them. One of them was an officer. Harper was the name, a major. He blames your regime and the state, both for his own miserable life and for her."

"Is that so? Perhaps he's right to do so. Eliza brought him back from the north, and that disaster of a campaign turned around so quickly with her intervention that I allowed it as a personal favour," Hereson said, not losing his composure for a moment, but he broke eye contact and revealed a hint of discomfort. "I was also willing to mentor her as a leader. The higher ranks are traditionally reserved for men, which I thought a wasteful policy, but she declined the offer."

Yet again, he wasn't surprised. "Political power isn't the point, and neither was reform. There are many who want this to continue until both sides are burned out, leaving nothing behind. You can't brutalise entire populations and expect it to end when you return home." The rain was slowing at last, and not for the first time he wished it would return.

"Are you saying their only interest is in prolonging the conflict?" Hereson asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or perhaps you're claiming a more philosophical motive. Eliza used to ask me those questions, at least before she joined Royce's office. I never forgave that. Now that she's betrayed him too I'm not sure what to think. Which is, again, why you're here. You remind me of her, you should know. You speak the same way, and you have the same presence. Cold, but convincing, as if you were reasonable. I know it's a mask, and I admire it."

At a loss for words, Edward remained silent, watching the general with a carefully composed face. He was growing tired of the comparison.

"Well, it's a more interesting theory than any I have, but I knew most of it long before you arrived," Hereson said with a derisive wave. "It can wait a while longer. As for you, Doctor, there are some questions I'd like answered. I've humoured you sufficiently, wouldn't you say?"

The lies would be expected soon, undoubtedly, and the thought was enough to darken his otherwise calm expression. The same artillery battery on the south wall was still firing. He could almost time the blasts, so consistent were the firing intervals. The larger battery in the north was still and silent. Was Hereson lying about his intentions? The general took several small pauses to watch the sky, and look at the surroundings, almost as if he wanted to savour the moment while it was there.

"Energy development, Gail claimed, but I knew he was deceiving me. Never before has he attempted that, and he was awful at it. You were developing a system to produce near-infinite energy from the air. It was never finished. I would like to know why two militaries decided to finance you, and why neither completed the project."

Would Regina tell him to lie? She was adept enough at self-deception, but curiously honest with others. The coast remained still. The man standing before him, powerful and dignified, watched with patience. Liars were punished. Eliza had taught him that, but his mind filled with the image of Jane laying in a pool of blood in a place she'd thought safe. Liars weren't punished: the people around them were. He was tired of it.

"What would you do if you knew the answer?"

"Alvernia is finished as a nation," Hereson said. "The south is lost, the east is looking to become independent, and the north is a ruined wasteland. I am not a dictator, regardless of my influence, but I will not lose everything I've built. Compromise is how this is done. Always has been."

"And what have you built? It's not worth saving if the decay below is any indicator."

"You're stating the obvious, Doctor, and giving me far less credit than is my due. I _slowed_ the decay, prevented it from worsening for years, but I'll never be thanked for it. Do you think you'd be better off without us? Half the populace would starve before the year was out. How could you possibly understand?" Hereson asked, his tone hardening.

It was difficult not to laugh at the absurdity. He'd been forced to make the same choice with his own life's work, something with so much potential never once realised. Embrace it, regardless of the consequences, or cover it up, salvaging what he could. He wanted to share this. Hereson was the sort of man who would appreciate the similarities.

Hereson waited for a moment, scowling, and looked away. "If I can be convinced that it will work, I'll support a peaceful reforms process—as originally intended. If they want to empower the working class, well, why should I care? There are always opportunities. To that end there are three negotiators waiting below. We, and that does include you, are going to convince them to cooperate."

This was the exact opposite of everything he'd learned to expect. The military had overwhelming force. Even if they lost the city, within weeks it could be retaken, any hint of rebellion crushed. It was cruel, and it was pointless, but it was such a simple thing for the general to do and he was refusing. Edward looked up, wiped the rain from his face, and felt a deep pain in his chest.

"It was a weapon, wasn't it? Why else would Anton have brought you back now? Something that would break through our superior numbers, perhaps allowing him to avoid the fighting entirely. It was completed, presumably, but not to his benefit." Hereson's words cut through him, exposing every vulnerability. Lyra had said he was intelligent, but he was only asking as a formality. The shock was written on his face, but he remained silent for a long moment to think. Trusting Regina, and Kesler, and Gail, to ensure the Third Energy remained a secret… could he do that?

Even if he could, who were the negotiators? If they knew, and they could, he would be revealed as a liar. Would it be unreasonable for Hereson to decide he was on Eliza's side, another ruined, bitter misanthrope soothed by her words much as Harper and Mirzin had been? One misunderstanding had killed someone he considered a friend. A second now could have even greater consequences.

"It can be used as a weapon." It was surprisingly simple to say the words. Lyra failed to hide a sharp intake of breath, almost stepping back involuntarily, and the general looked at her, his eyes narrowing. He wanted to tell her it wasn't a betrayal, almost nauseated at the thought. He said nothing.

The general sighed, looking back at his assistant for a brief second. "Who controls this weapon now? What do they want?"

"There are two components. One is held by Eliza, and I doubt she wants anything we could give. The other was taken from me by the man I mentioned before, and he intends to destroy both the state and the military as thoroughly as can be done. The militia you're attempting to crush is hunting him down, as is your own man, but they could easily fail."

"And they are enemies?" Hereson asked. If he was unnerved he was hiding it well, but something had changed. "The northern campaign was her work. He languished in a cell under her care, not mine." It was a poor excuse, and they both knew it.

"I don't think it's a question either of us can answer." It was the most honest answer he could give. Was it possible that they didn't despise each other? Not only possible but likely, he thought.

"In my experience that means they are _not_ enemies, and any man who would live with his tormentor for three years without returning the favour would likely agree," Hereson said, turning aside and beckoning his assistant to join them.

Richard approached uncaringly, lacking both the care and professionalism shown during the state broadcasts. His face was unnaturally pale, eyes tired and red. There was a stairway, Edward realised, to the far left. It looked unused. He counted down from six, timing another burst of artillery exactly. If this was a pretence, it would be a costly one.

"Do I give the order, sir?" Richard Morrent said, straightening his posture. It did nothing to hide his weariness, one hand still lightly grasping the pistol at his side.

"No," Hereson said, running a gloved hand through his hair. "Have the northern units remain where they are and send up Anton's negotiators. We'll cut this conflict short before it has a chance to spread. If that upstart thinks she can best me at this…" The general trailed off, engrossed in his own thoughts. The way he spoke, it sounded like a game he refused to lose, his mind fixed on defeating an adversary.

"Captain, I want an escort. Four of your men, one for each entrance. Have the rest remain on standby, any who can still be trusted. Have Colonel Liebert focus on defence, and ignore any attempt to subvert that order." Lyra jumped, evidently surprised, and turned aside to comply. If she'd understood why he hadn't lied, that would certainly be helpful. No matter what he did, someone was dissatisfied.

Hereson watched her leave, but lost interest quickly. "What will this weapon do, Doctor? You invented it, after all, and we have a lot to gain by cooperating."

"It can make an entire city vanish within seconds, if it works as expected. Impressive, I know, but it isn't stable. They won't be targeting Merestan, I can assure you of that," Edward said, growing unnerved at how calm he was. This was as a stressful a situation as he'd ever encountered, and he felt next to nothing. "I didn't intend for it to be this way, but that means nothing now. An unfortunate accident, nothing more."

General Hereson gave no reply for some time, his subordinates relaying their orders to the sound of distant conflict. The man's eyes had widened, his breath held for a long moment. "I see. Then you're not the man you appear. So calm and collected, to have invented such a thing. Now I know why they went to such lengths to find you. Based on your answer it's in the city, but I doubt you'll share the exact location. Am I wrong?"

He wasn't. "Why are so calm about this?"

Hereson smiled, gesturing at the city below. "Such a monumental threat during a period of negotiation. I couldn't have asked for more. In a fractured nation all that matters is my power base, and you've confirmed their weapon is useless here. If she uses it, well, nothing I've done will compare to an atrocity on that scale."

"And if Gail destroys it?"

"Then we don't have to deal with a weapon that can destroy cities. Either way, it's not as catastrophic as the entire populace rising up, as they have already done. This is for the best. Think of the lives we'll save, and I can see this is personal. Did Eliza play one of her games with you? Forget it, and her. I could use a man like you at my side. Military officer, civilian official? It all depends on how the negotiations proceed, but there'll be a place for you if you want it. Central command and Eliza's deserters. They can wear the blame, and we'll be untouched."

Agree or disagree, silence was the best answer. The four of them waited for the arrival of the other guests. The rain had stopped at last and cool wind from the north chilled them all, but it was hard to notice, let alone care. Heavy cloud cover painted the city grey, the western ocean as calm as ever. Regina had been the one to deprive Hereson of his fleet, he recalled, hiding a growing smile. The military could surely destroy the generator from afar, but would Hereson give the order? He didn't want to find out. Regina had to be given the time to either succeed, escape, or die. He owed her that much.

"My staff aren't going to like this decision. They'll understand eventually, I suspect. You already do, so why not them?" Hereson said, quietly enough that only Edward could hear. "If we break now it's over. A fractured state, a military exhausted from civil war, a ruined economy. Every year it worsens, and they refuse to see it. Central command lost control well before I heard your name; now I can feel my own grasp slipping. Borginia would like that, and they've been watching."

He didn't repeat himself. Not all motivations were as quantifiable as the general wanted to believe. Harper was no revolutionary, his ultimate intention was nothing less than suicidal. Why should Eliza be any different? She was intelligent and capable, almost intimidatingly so, but that meant as much as his own claims on intelligence. Understanding the people around her, convincing them to assist her, that was a far more dangerous skill, something he'd never understood.

He was satisfied with this, at least. Entering without preconceptions, judging Hereson based on his words and actions and responding accordingly: it had worked remarkably well. Was it ideal? It was too hard to say. They were all compromising, stumbling in the dark to avoid a threat neither of them understood.

"At last they've arrived," Hereson said, still standing at his side. "Follow my lead, would you? They always send the obnoxious ones to negotiate, and this time is no different." Richard greeted two guests emerging from the elevator on the right. The general frowned ever so slightly, his piercing gaze remaining on the elevator for a slight second as the doors closed.

His composure turned to ice in his chest as they came into view. In the lead was a woman dressed far too functionally to be a professional diplomat, if her youth wasn't enough of a deterrent. A Borginian accent, barely heard as she murmured something to her partner, was an even worse sign, but the partner was the problem. Hereson was a master at this, Edward realised. The Borginian woman looked at them both, cautious eyes settling on him for a long, questioning moment.

The general watched, patiently, looking them over in the same analytical way. Richard waited near the elevator looking worse by the moment, hand still on his pistol. Edward stood at Hereson's side, becoming increasingly aware that his placement had been intentional, to see if it elicited a reaction.

It did. His reaction to seeing Royce's representatives had been an uncomfortable mix of panic and disconcertion, at least internally. On the outside he controlled himself, remaining as composed as ever, resisting the urge to show any hints of recognition. A disinterested, dismissive stare was something he'd perfected long ago.

The same could not be said for Rick, who'd fallen silent upon seeing the fugitive he'd last seen in military custody standing at the side of the most powerful man in the nation and his trusted subordinates. Hereson watched them in silence and waited. Rick revealed all he knew without saying a word.

Their antipathy was all but undisguised. Standing directly in front of them, Rick and his companion were staring directly at their adversaries. Edward met his eyes, unflinching. He was nothing, and would remain so until proven otherwise. The Borginian woman was openly scowling, unafraid of Hereson, who was as calm as ever. Readying himself for what had to be done, he refused to look away. What right did they have to look down on him?

"Well, let's try again, shall we?" General Hereson said, a light smile on his face.

"I don't understand. Why are you even hesitating? Your people are dying, you're losing your city, and you won't commit to _anything_? You're even worse than I imagined."

Her words were harsh, too pained to be those of an impartial negotiator. They were outmatched in this, Edward knew. Both he and the general were far more experienced, and much less likely to respond to provocation.

Rick watched while his companion spoke. With one last look at his adversary's expressionless face, he turned away at last and returned his attention to General Hereson, who was entirely unaffected by her conviction.

"As I told you both, I couldn't possibly agree without knowing certain truths first. Negotiation takes time, and that's the one thing I can't offer you. Perhaps if you'd _ordered_ the people to be patient we'd be handling this in a more civilised manner."

The Borginian woman scowled at Hereson's mocking tone, but Rick barely looked to have heard. Would he care to know that Regina was alive? Edward didn't know. She'd seldom mentioned the man, or anyone else, in his presence, and that was how he'd preferred it.

"Don't try to get out of this. You've lost their support, how long do you expect you can keep this up? Royce is being much more generous than I would be."

"I'm surprised it's his choice, that you're not putting it to the vote. Well, it's not your concern, is it? It's not your city we're shelling. In any case, we have a mutual enemy now, and I think you'll find cooperation will benefit us both. You suspect this already, don't you?" Hereson asked, looking at Rick. "But you're missing a member of your party. I'd prefer he not be left to roam free, you understand."

"He's with the man you left in charge of the defence, General," Rick said, his voice stilted. "And I don't recall agreeing to _his_ presence at a private negotiation."

Hereson's self-satisfied look faltered for a fraction for a second, and he directed Lyra to have the third diplomat retrieved from a man named Liebert. "Kirk is an independent representative. Without his assistance none of this will make any difference. Don't pretend to be indignant; I can see where your actual interest lies."

Quite the compliment, Edward thought, but it was true enough.

"This is the representative they've chosen, which looks to have amused you as much as it has me. The woman calls herself Melissa Weaver, an obvious pseudonym, and she is one of two representatives from Borginia, who've made no attempt to hide their interference in our affairs," Hereson continued, not hiding his disinterest in the pleasantries.

Edward nodded politely at her, recalling them both from the state broadcast. Jane had identified her as Borginian then, and now the memory was almost uncomfortable. Something about this was disquieting. Why would a negotiator be speaking to the man in charge of the defence, not the commander? He knew better than to ask in front of Rick.

Melissa was unimpressed with him, evidently, scowling only slightly less than she had at Hereson. Fortunately he'd grown used to receiving this response and couldn't take it personally. What she thought of him, whatever preconceptions she had, would simply have to be corrected.

"Now that I _have_ been properly informed, I'd like to arrange a solution to this conflict that satisfies us both. The military is tasked with restoring order, as they like to say, but how shall we do that? You claim our government oppresses the vast majority of the populace for the benefit of its rulers and needs to be seized and smashed. You've certainly found popular support, but why should I acknowledge your claim?"

He gave them no time to answer. "More importantly, I feel obligated to tell you that I have not decided how best to approach this, but dismantling or otherwise significantly impeding the military is unacceptable. Our external threats will not vanish so easily, and I doubt your militias can be managed effectively without the support of men like myself in any case. No, compromise will be needed, and better with me than anyone else."

"We're not compromising without systemic change. You know the demands," Rick said. He was uncertain. It showed in his face, and Hereson's tactic was a seductive one, whether he was being truthful or not.

"I'm aware. Continued fighting will achieve the exact opposite, so clearly to achieve that end we'll need to ensure the faction destabilising all our attempts to achieve this peaceful resolution is destroyed. Eliza and her companions will do their best to ensure the military opposes you. We'll build mutual trust by opposing them together, and they'll be a convenient target for the public's anger."

"He's still right," Melissa said, "you're not getting out of it that easily. For a start we want the land you stole from us given back, and with reparations. That's just the start, and don't think it absolves you of the blame."

Hereson's hand twitched at his side. "And what would you know of blame? You resisted our legitimate claim on those islands with lethal force. What did you expect? That we would sit back while you murdered our soldiers, assassinated our diplomats. The man who arranged for you to be here oversaw it all, and you have the nerve to condescend to—"

"That's not how it happened," she said, face twisting with sudden anger, and Rick had to hold her back.

"Isn't it? The truth, as you see it, is irrelevant. What do you gain by taking revenge? More suffering, more hatred. What will _you_ do when they come for revenge? You'll tell them what I'm telling you. Far better to end the cycle now while we have the chance, don't you think?"

"Just stop lying," she spat, and he could see Hereson was pushing her too far. "You never stopped, did you? Again and again, wherever you could. Not anymore. It's over, Hereson. You'll be lucky to avoid a firing squad." Her angered accusations had finally taken effect, and Hereson's cold stare had taken on a harsher quality.

"Did we? Did I, you mean? You're not half as well-informed as you'd like to think. I could tell you—"

"No more," Rick said, raising his voice and standing between them. "I won't let you do this to her. Will you agree to the terms or not? That's all that matters." He was restraining his own anger with remarkable skill.

Hereson sighed. "The details will be dealt with later, preferably with less melodrama. Tell them why we need to cooperate, Kirk. It'll be so much more believable coming from you."

This was the last thing he'd wanted. Convincing Hereson was one thing; the man was in a similar position, and he was reasonable, understandable. They were reporting directly to Royce and Borginia, and how could ever hide the Third Energy's destructive potential if it were revealed to them? Was that even worth attempting? Suddenly he found he was unsure again, his resolution fading.

Rick was ready to launch into an indignant outburst at the slightest provocation, he could tell, and it was difficult not to despise him for it. He wasn't here to negotiate, or to listen: he'd made up his mind well before emerging from that elevator. Melissa's anger was colder, harder to read. The look in her eyes reminded him of Regina, and he tried to forget it again, but it was impossible.

He was tired of hiding, and of being looked down on by those who knew nothing and thought themselves superior for it. What had Rick ever sacrificed?

"If you do not cooperate in this, and you know nothing about me or what I believe, or what I've done, so stop sneering as if you were so superior, the Third Energy that you helped give to the military will be used against you both. There is an entire faction working to achieve this, and they will destabilise every attempt at peace you make. You're been used this entire time to facilitate their goals at the expense of both the military and your revolution."

Edward shrugged, remaining as calm as he could. "You know I'm not lying. Not unless you're taking responsibility for the massacre that took place right here," he said, tapping the wet stone with his boot. "Eliza is far smarter than you, and not half as arrogant, but feel free to do as you like. I won't stop you." At this Hereson frowned, but he didn't speak.

"It's entirely up to you, but if you expect this to end well you'll focus entirely on dealing with her. Think carefully. You could kill thousands by making the wrong choice here. Are you ready to take responsibility for that? That's how it is, every time, and it's never as simple as you want it to be."

He gave the advice out of curiosity, to see what effect it had, but also because Rick's anger reminded him of himself. He wanted to make Rick understand, to see how difficult it could be.

"You know what he's done. We can't stop—"Rick began, but Edward cut him off.

"Does it matter? How easy would it be for him to give the order and sweep the streets clean? Do you know how rare this is? To be given a chance to explain yourself, to not be judged and condemned in an instant? You surprise me, you should know. I'd expected more." He hadn't expected much, in truth, but the man was Regina's friend. He lacked her clarity of thought, and it showed, but he didn't blame him for it.

It was satisfying to see the vexation in Rick's eyes melt away. He looked between them both, unable to find the words, but Melissa held him back when he attempted to step forward. Hereson nodded, almost imperceptibly, and it was hard not to be content. He felt as if he were making progress, that what he was doing was helping in some way.

"Why should you care? I remember Ibis Island. You said it yourself—all that mattered was your research, and look where it got us. You murdered your own researchers," Rick said, regaining his surety with each word.

The accusation was surprisingly painful to hear. It was far easier to forget the past. Hereson was smiling, and it was a sympathetic smile. Rick was right. Pragmatism, he'd said to himself. Mercy, even. It had felt good to kill them, to take revenge on those who refused to understand even at the end. He thought he understood them now, why they'd blamed him, but there was still no deep regret, and he accepted that for what it was.

"I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what will happen if you insist on doing what feels right, and not what needs to be done," Edward said, shrugging. "It must make you feel like your life is worthwhile, I know. Who could give that up that certainty?" The wind grew stronger, and he welcomed the sensation.

"Tell me something, Kirk," Rick said, far more softly. "Have you ever cared about anyone other than yourself?"

It was not a question he wished to discuss with Rick, or with anyone. "What does it mean, to care for somebody? How do you know when you care, even for yourself?" He waited a brief moment, but Rick had no response. "I suppose you're as oblivious as I am."

Did Rick care for his companion? He and Melissa were standing together, almost defensively, as if protecting one another from an unseen threat. Was that what it was? Something that could remain unsaid, that didn't need to be expressed. He didn't ask.

"Now you understand. We have no choice but to unite, and that's as it should be," Hereson said, still standing at his side, one hand in his pocket. The general smiled, looking more and more predatory as he took control of the situation, the occasional knowing glance enough to make Edward feel as if he were an accomplice, not a bystander.

As uncertain as Rick and his companion were, neither could begin to contradict either Kirk's evidence or Hereson's arguments. It was a bitter thing, to be confronted by two men they'd thought of as monsters only to be forced to accept the existence of an even greater threat. The negotiations were short, dominated by the threat of the Third Energy and those fighting to control it.

Looking at Rick and Melissa stand together, almost protectively, he felt a sharp spike of anxiety. He should have told Regina to run, not to throw her life away for nothing. Even if he had the chance again, he knew he wouldn't. It wasn't pointless to her, and never had been.

What Royce was thinking he couldn't say. That he was clearly relying on foreign support, even if only logistically, seemed ominous, and Hereson listened particularly carefully to Melissa's words. He recalled the time spent in the self-governed western district; it had been pleasant enough, but to implement that on a larger scale? He'd never bothered to ask what they were fighting for.

When they finally agreed that avoiding a unified military response was their top priority, and that doing so would require dealing with the subversive elements attempting to instigate exactly that, Hereson stood back, finally satisfied. He was a brutal negotiator. Royce had to have known this and he'd sent them anyway. It was illogical, and the third, presumably senior, negotiator had yet to arrive, but he was receiving the information through an active communicator on Rick's wrist.

"We'll need to tell Royce, this is too much for us," Melissa finally said, putting a hand on Rick's shoulder to return his attention to the situation. "As for the rest, I'll need to ask Borginian command. Even so, if this is such a risk, why haven't you stopped her already?"

"Where do you suggest I start? As it is we can barely spare the resources to investigate. Until Edward's arrival today I was as ill-informed as the two of you."

"They need a generator to make this work, and you can't just hide something like that. Kirk knows where it is, so why don't you ask him? Let me guess: he won't tell you," Rick said. His tone was obnoxiously self-righteous. That he was entirely correct didn't help.

"I intend to. In return, you'll tell Anton: the military, or the parts I control, can be convinced to bow to the people's will under the right conditions. If he agrees, we'll organise a temporary ceasefire while this problem is dealt with. I'm more familiar with regime change than you know. You'll need my expertise, and I can keep the other officers in line. Does that sound fair to you?"

Apathy was a familiar feeling. Hereson had taken it to another extreme, promoting his own self-interest at the expense of anything else. He had morals, ethical standards, beliefs, opinions: they could all be changed and discarded at will, as was happening now. He didn't care, not the way that Rick did, and they could all see it.

"I don't trust you. You're in it for yourself and nobody else, and you can't even be bothered hiding it. I don't trust him either," Rick said, pointing at Kirk. "Luckily for you I know what the Third Energy can do, and I want this to end peacefully. We'll ask Colonel Royce, see if he trusts you any more than I do. He'll be interested to hear you're still alive, Kirk," he added. He could see it in Rick's eyes: the man wanted answers, and he wouldn't be getting them.

"He'll see reason, I'm sure. Whatever idealistic notions you had, discard them. You think you're better than we are, that we're the villains and must be punished for our transgressions. Perhaps Eliza is the villain, you'll tell yourself, and she can be punished in my place. Believe it if you must, but expect to be bitterly disappointed. Wouldn't you agree, Edward?"

He would, but was less inclined to say it. "This is necessary. They are not like you, and you cannot understand them. What you would call a rational motivation means nothing to her. They may even agree with you: the revolution ought to succeed, but they'll fight against it in any case. Even so, you don't think I'll just tell you where the generator is, do you? Or _him_?" he asked, pointing at Hereson, who took no offense at all.

"Then where are Regina and Gail? Why are you here if—" A firm shake of the head from Melissa silenced Rick's outburst, but she too looked worried.

"Even now you're looking for a reason to hate me, aren't you? They're both in the city now, but if we can't make this work I doubt they'll survive for long." Rick had no answer, watching him intently, still looking for mockery.

It wasn't enough. "Did you ever consider that a military operation to kidnap an energy researcher might not have been ordered with the best of intentions? You're simply doing what you think is necessary, as are we all, so perhaps you ought to leave and do what you agreed to do."

Rick looked between them both, visibly restraining himself from responding. Melissa's calm demeanour had its effect, but the man looked shaken by Edward's words. Ultimately he nodded and turned to speak to his companion. It had all worked.

Hereson smiled slightly, obviously thankful. It was hard not to be relieved. He'd gained the general's trust, negotiated as best he could for an ideal outcome. A ceasefire would help buy Regina a chance to escape, give Kesler's militia time to regroup, and starve Eliza and Harper's attempts to worsen the conflict. The Third Energy could be dealt with discretely, if he persuaded the relevant parties it was in their best interests. Hereson already agreed on this, it seemed to him.

"We'll need access to the communication area," Rick said, and the general agreed, beckoning Richard over to escort them, but his sharp gaze turned to the stairway. Lyra had returned with two soldiers, their faces obscured by peaked caps. Tall as she was, the man behind towered over them all.

They stepped out of the shadow of the stairway and Edward's blood ran cold. Regina had pointed him out, exactly the same time he'd seen Rick and Melissa. He'd never heard her more bitter. Had there been a mistake? The view on the broadcast had been poor, and his face had been hidden. Enormous and bulging with muscle, he looked over them all with an analytical stare. Both soldiers waited behind at each side of the stairway, observing patiently.

Hereson, Royce's negotiators, Lyra, all were oblivious, and as he left the escort behind and approached the man greeted the general. Only Richard had reacted, his pale hand clenched around the holstered pistol.

"Colonel Liebert found your new approach quite interesting, General. He insisted I stay and allow him to listen, and now he's demanding you let him deploy his northern soldiers. They've taken the southern outskirts, you see. "

"We're not taking the offensive, and he's aware of this. As you should be. Report to Borginian command and deliver my proposal. I'll need assurances, but feel free to have your islands back. Most of the mines are depleted, anyway," Hereson said, his tone suddenly cold and impersonal.

The third negotiator remained where he was, silent and composed. He checked his watch, pulling back his sleeve and holding up his arm. "Twenty past six," he murmured.

"What are you doing? It's not our fault you were late; we're done here, let's go while we've got the chance," Melissa said, already turning to leave. Rick was more cautious, and remained where he was.

He barely looked to have heard. "It's poetic, some might say, but I'm not one of them," he said, looking out at the city below them and the sun in the far west. Her words registered eventually and he looked over, almost bored. "I'm not ready to leave. There's something else they might want to hear, and it's not quite time to tell them."

"Kill him," Edward whispered, so softly only Hereson could hear, and the general did. "He's with Anders, I know he is, you can't take the risk. He's taunting you."

A long, excruciatingly painful moment passed. The negotiator stood facing them, but his eyes were on the northern sky. Hereson was still, hesitating, and the others were watching silently. A final burst of artillery finished, fell silent, and once more it began to rain. The sky was darkening rapidly, the long day finally coming to its end.

"It's a beautiful view, isn't it? You ever been one for symbolism, Kirk?" he asked. His eyes were hard, focused, and asked far more questions than he was willing to voice. That brief moment communicated all that needed to be known.

It was difficult not to respect Hereson. Sordid history or not, nothing was missed, nothing mistaken. The general's eyes narrowed, and he pointed at the man directly in front of them. "Captain Ackerman, take him into custody," he ordered, looking at Rick and Melissa. "You'll be handling the negotiations alone; this man is _not_ a Borginian official."

The sense of relief was indescribable. He'd understood. Lyra shouted orders at the two soldiers, but they remained unmoving, and even Richard had stopped looking, staring up at the dull northern sky. The panic returned in full and Kosra smiled. "It's an impressive plan, General. I think it could've worked too. You really do live up to your reputation, and you exceed yours, Kirk."

Lyra had trained her rifle on him, but the others had yet to move a muscle. Melissa shouted another question that went entirely ignored. He realised it had, as Jane had so feared, finally happened. When all is as it should be, relief is within sight, only then do they reveal themselves.

Kosra raised his arm again, slowly and carefully, and looked at his watch. "Six thirty. I think it's time." He flicked a small switch on its side and lowered his arm, smiling.

Edward pushed past the general, none of them moving to stop him. "Kill him, Lyra, this is our last—"

"Too late, Doctor," Kosra said, and he turned around and shielded his eyes.

A deafening blast erupted from one of the lower floors, shaking the entire command centre beneath them. The western sky turned red for a brief few seconds, the flare hard to look upon. His ears were ringing, but a gunshot and muffled cry of pain pulled their attention away from the rising smoke. Lyra had shot Kosra through the leg. He fell to one knee, refusing to look back at her, and stood up again despite the pain.

Facing the south as they were, Kirk and Hereson looked at each other, neither willing to turn back. "So soon?" Hereson asked, unperturbed. "Something you left from the massacre, I presume? A cheap trick."

"Oh no, General, simply the prelude to the main event, as promised," Kosra said, openly grinning. The command centre's alarms, both raid and fire, were openly ringing. What morale the garrison still had would be rapidly fading, Edward knew, and so did the rest of them, judging from their grim faces.

"Permission to fire, sir?" Lyra said, jaw clenched in anger, but Hereson shook his head. Another sharp laugh only emphasised the futility of the gesture. Rick and Melissa were standing back, unnaturally quiet, but he realised Richard had drawn his pistol and was keeping them in place.

It couldn't be true, but Kosra, blood spurting from his muscular leg, was smirking at them. Did he know? More than enough time had passed. He was paralysed by indecisiveness, both choices unfathomably difficult. What did it achieve, holding back when he knew they'd failed? Was it his way of proving he cared? What he'd agreed to do could still be done, and he took the pain he felt, genuine feeling, as something to be appreciated.

"She expected me to do this, to listen, and wait, and scheme until it was too late. I won't let it happen this time." Whether that was true, he couldn't say, but believing it made what he had to do easier. "We need to destroy it, and now."

Another sharp laugh, bitter and mocking, came from Kosra. "Well, I didn't see this coming. Why should you care any more than I do? But you're not wrong. So predictable, she said, that if only you're given the chance to speak instead of act you'll take it, and these three never do shut up, do they?"

For the first time Hereson's composure cracked. Instead of arguing, he simply nodded. "Richard, take Kirk to the artillery commanders. They're to obey his orders without question." He looked back at Kirk. "There's your chance. Get moving, and prove me right for trusting you."

He nodded, more thankful than could be expressed, and ran the glistening marble stretch to the stairway. But Richard hadn't moved, motionless and tense, and Rick was staring intently at him, an insistent look in his eye. He stopped, unsure, a feeling of dread overcoming him. Were they already too late? The soldiers flanking the stairway were unmoving, and had seemingly ignored the entire scene before them.

"Go. I'll interrogate this creature, and they'll have no choice but to believe us," Hereson said, loud and commanding. He saw it too. Smoke was rising from the western end of the building, and the artillery in the south fired again, this time accompanied by the western battery.

The first of many return shots hit the command centre, showering them in rubble. A quick glance to his right showed Royce's fleet was firing on them, the smoke proving a useful obstruction. Hereson shouted at them to hurry and he ran, reaching the stair at last only for the soldier on his left to grasp his arm and pull him to a stop.

Her grip was firm, but cold. "Hello, Edward," she said, and the last hints of warmth left his body. "The game's grown stale, hasn't it? I don't blame you. This was how it had to be."


	26. Chapter 26

_**Important note: As of 20/3 the last chapter was REVISED. Or extended, rather, by 4000 words. For those following this as it's updated, finish that first.**_

_Lesser Note: ___Feedback on this sort of scene is invaluable, so i_f ever I would appreciate a critical review this chapter is it.  
_

He didn't hesitate, seizing her throat with one hand before she could even finish speaking. It made no difference. A shout from behind came as a distraction, as did the barrel of the other soldier's rifle in his back.

"This is familiar," she murmured, tightening her own grip on his arm. It was a trick, he knew; the soldier pressed the rifle's barrel further into his spine to emphasise this. His grip loosened, but hers didn't.

"You want her dead?" a man shouted, and he looked aside to see Kosra had used the distraction to disarm Lyra, who'd fallen back. The rifle was at his feet, and she looked at them all, at the rifleman, before running for the elevators. Even injured, Kosra was enormous and intimidating to look upon, his hand resting on a knife at his hip.

"Should he, Edward?" the woman holding his arm asked, genuinely curious, if her tone was to be believed.

Liars were punished. "No, he shouldn't." The urge to defy her had been forcibly suppressed; the woman whose life was at stake had done nothing to deserve this, and they both knew it.

"Is that so? You learned the lesson. I'm glad for you," Eliza Anders said. She looked at Kosra and shook her head, throwing the peaked cap aside with her other hand. He picked up the rifle, kneeling down at last with a grimace. Lyra reached the elevators unharmed and vanished from sight.

It was the first time he'd seen her in far too many years. Their last encounter, in the facility buried under the coast, had been dominated by Royce's revelation that his research funding had been cut. She'd watched, silently, even after the colonel left, but neither of them had spoken. There were subtle differences, he realised, but few were intentional.

With her unremarkable height and preference for modest clothing Eliza was easily missed from afar. She was beyond slender, surely as underweight as he was, and her exposed skin gave the impression she hadn't seen the sun in a long time. Her blonde hair was loose, almost mocking the military uniform she'd used as a disguise.

Her pale eyes were alive with energy, almost reminiscent of Harper's but far more controlled. Despite her sunken cheeks her face was alluring, and there was an unmistakably harsh quality to her features. Eliza looked profoundly unhealthy, and undeniably striking for it. They made eye contact at last, and he knew she thought the same of him.

"You've changed. I was watching, and I was impressed. You're exactly what I hoped you were, and it's been a fascinating game, don't you think?" Eliza asked, her voice so soft only he could hear.

"What was the point?"

She raised an eyebrow, ignoring the others entirely. "While they're not listening we ought to admit the truth. All we did was take them," Eliza said, waving dismissively to her side, "and give them the opportunity to fulfil their own desires, or not, as we preferred. We have the control, they have the desire."

"That's not—"

"Don't lie to yourself. You've stumbled from place to place for months, changing it all with each discovery. What do you want, Edward? What's your goal? What about when your goal is complete, what happens then?" Her smug smile was infuriating, even more so because he knew she couldn't answer the questions either.

What did he want? The question had burned in the back of his mind for months, and had been subdued for far longer. It had been one of the first things Regina had asked, and he'd had no answer.

"You told Harper you wanted to help him, didn't you? And the same to Andrea, and now to James, and how many others? Oh, I know you weren't ever lying. The truth is, you don't have the conviction they do. When you told them you agreed and would help, well, it was true enough. For a while. You needed them, and they needed you. And I haven't even mentioned _her_. I had someone do that for me, although I'm still not sure why he bothered."

He wanted to force her to be quiet. To show her how much conviction he could feel. It didn't happen. They stared at each other for a long moment, oblivious to the surroundings.

"Why would I have done this if that were true?" he asked, realising someone to their right was shouting. He couldn't care.

Eliza laughed. "You didn't. I didn't. We watched, and we convinced, but we don't _do_, Edward. They do," she said, looking to his right. Richard had drawn the pistol, Hereson and Kosra arguing, the latter brandishing his stolen rifle as he knelt.

He hadn't intended to manipulate them, not as openly as she had. The broken promises had been necessary, adapting his plans to meet the situation. But it was true enough: Harper, Kesler, Gail: none of his words had been genuine, not the way he'd wanted them to be, and his intentions had endured only so long as he remained with them.

"Even if I did agree, and don't think I do, what does it matter? They'd never have made it this far without us, and that _is_ tangible action. We're the reason they're here, and I know you had someone waiting in that facility. Mirzin, wasn't it? Don't try to avert the blame now. You've earned it, and all that follows."

A slight smile. Eliza was fascinating to look upon, so remarkably different from anyone he'd ever known. "Earned? I'm not sure I agree. The conditions were right; all we had to do was give them a slight push in the right direction. I wish I could explain with words, but I think a man of science would prefer a demonstration."

Turning around, Eliza's smile faded in an instant and she approached the others. As occupied as he'd been, he'd missed it all. Rick and Melissa were arguing with Hereson and Kosra; Richard was motionless, paralysed.

"This has gone far enough. To come here in person, Eliza? You weren't always so reckless," Hereson said, approaching them with care.

"I assure you, I'm quite safe. You've been remarkably quiet, James. Why not unleash the army? They'll never let you keep your position, no matter how much you offer to share. Perhaps they'll _elect_ a replacement. I'd love to see your face if that happened, to watch as they took it all away," Eliza said, and he knew she wanted him to walk with her, so he didn't. The rifleman watched, silent. His eyes were blank, distant, almost unnervingly so.

"You underestimate how valuable I am, and don't think they'll refuse a chance to have the military switch sides—"

She ignored him. "Kosra, tell me what Liebert said again. And I should apologise for allowing that woman to shoot you, but you don't seem to mind too much."

Kneeling with one hand on his bleeding leg, Kosra looked likely to disagree. He didn't. "They said if don't bring in reinforcements the garrison won't last another day. He says they've started executing your favoured elite in the streets, and your officers are getting uncomfortable, General. Some of them think you might just be a traitor yourself."

"It's irrelevant. We have the time to make this work, and you can be a part of it too if you must. Don't use your weapon until we've discussed this, give me that much time," Hereson said, and now his composure was cracking.

Eliza shrugged. "But it's not my weapon. I'm not in control. Edward, do you think your friends can stop him before he reaches it? Your allies or mine. Either way, all we can do is watch."

"I should have killed you back under Ibis Island," Melissa shouted, far more emotion in her voice than in theirs. "I had a loaded pistol, and I aimed it at Royce." She laughed, a look of loathing on her face. "I should have shot you instead."

"Did you actually think that pistol was loaded? I had Morton stand there, you should know, all so you could put on that little show for your friend's benefit. We needed them to like you, you see. It was all for nothing, really, after I found Kosra. You should have been executed with the other prisoners."

She was so consistently callous, and it was all done without condescension or judgment. There was no spite in her words, no obvious pleasure taken in the pain she inflicted. It made no difference; Melissa fell back, and Rick pulled her away. He, at least, seemed to realise no good could come from speaking.

"Now, as I was saying, Liebert is nervous. They're all nervous. Some terrible person set off a bomb on the fourth floor, Royce's old office, and they were quite willing to listen to my proposal."

"I'm not unleashing the military on my own city. We wouldn't survive even if we did crush their revolution, how short-sighted can Liebert be? This is the only way. As for you—"

But Eliza ignored him again. "Let's ask someone else." She took a long step back and put a hand on Edward's shoulder, smirking as insolently as she possibly could. "An impartial voice, perhaps, with ambition and political experience and an interest in staying alive. Who could that be?" He clenched his jaw. Were the theatrics for his benefit? He'd done similar in the past, to put on a certain image, give off the right impression.

"Richard, you're the man I need," she said, and the man in question flinched. "Remember that favour I granted? Not stabbing you with a letter opener, I think it was. Would you like to return the favour and do something for me?"

If anything the beleaguered assistant turned even paler. He looked a moment away from vomiting, holding the pistol at his side. Kosra was kneeling, Lyra's rifle in his hands, the second soldier holding another. There was no need for this, and it was precisely why she would do it.

"I can't do it," Richard said, his voice hoarse. "You're sick, you have to be. What do you get out of this?" He regained his strength, if only slightly, and looked at Kosra. "What do _you_ get out of this?"

"Me? I'm just repaying a favour. You're the one who acts out their propaganda, aren't you?" Kosra said. He sounded surprised to be asked such a thing. "Just when I think it can't get any better, she finds a way. To think it'd be me, of all people, who could be here now."

"You're no better than her," Rick said, finally approaching, condemnation in his voice. Melissa had given up, looking at her fellow Borginian with pity. General Hereson stepped in, making several cogent arguments in a swift statement.

"I love this. They're so passionate," Eliza whispered in his ear as they argued. "I think it's going to happen soon. Are you ready?

"Have you considered he's right?" Edward asked, in a similar whisper. "You are sick. When this is done, if Harper gets his wish, what will you do then?"

"I'll follow their desires to the logical end and ask: what next? Can they answer? No more than you could when you insisted your Third Energy project meant anything. Will it be satisfying? Even this feels like nothing. The rain is cool, the wind harsh, and I think I'll have decided a nation's future before the sun sets. I should be happy. It's not as it should be." She seized his arm again and pulled him aside, instructing Kosra and her rifleman to keep the others occupied.

"He plans to die when this is finished, not continue," he pointed out, and Eliza laughed.

"As is the best solution to this problem. Who would ever want a long life? He's not stupid. Achieve this one burning passion, and fade as it does. A graceful exit. She is different, I think. In each moment your precious Regina decides what is best, and that's enough. Sustained might be the word. I don't understand it, but that woman is no liar. If she tries to be a soldier now, after deciding to give it up, she'll descend that ladder and never emerge again."

That was too much. He could feel the anger rising as she spoke, the injustice too much to ignore. "You didn't give her a choice. What kind of observer does that make you? You can't resist the urge to force people to do as you like, can you? How pathetic."

"Oh, no, I learned my lesson. All that torture, and it got me nowhere. What I did to her was practical. Dangerous people must be controlled. Do you know, the first time we were truly alone he held me to a wall and very calmly said he intended to rape and murder me. It was a logical end, the result of my actions, and something I'd expected. But he refused, and I'm not sure he ever knew why either."

There was something wrong, he thought, with this entire scenario. To make this happen, as much as it had only been possible because of the desires and actions of others, even the material conditions of an entire nation, had been an incredible achievement. Instead of gloating, Eliza was allowing the situation to deteriorate around them.

It looked as if she'd forgotten it wasn't the two of them alone in an empty room, but that last utterance admitting that she, of all people, hadn't understood someone's motives. That was familiar, and his anger dulled upon hearing it. He'd wondered the same thing far too many times. Why had Regina ever listened to him? What was different, to lead her to that decision, when so many others had never spared him even a moment's thought? It was a driving force, and had been since their exile together. He hated that they shared that much, and felt the urge to seize her by the throat again.

He looked away from the others, as if he and Eliza were separated from them by an invisible wall, something only they could see. "I've hated you for so long. It was easier hating Royce than you, and you've done far more to deserve it. Even now, you've done it again. I never could get used to powerlessness.

"Hatred is only natural. I've ruined your life, haven't I?"

"But I don't think I hate you." At this her calm smile shifted, almost becoming wary. "You must be the loneliest person I've ever met. You can outthink me as much as you like and it'll never satisfy you. Hard not to appreciate that much, even in this position. Would you like to gloat? You'd only embarrass yourself by trying."

For the briefest second Eliza looked surprised. Her usual morose stare shifted back into place and she laughed. "You are everything I hoped you were. We both learned the lesson, but didn't understand it. Why couldn't I ever be satisfied with what I had? Why do we seem to shift from place to place, person to person, never content? We need limits, ideals, but I think we only ever pretend to have them. Alone we're empty, and none of this professed feeling means anything."

"Doesn't it? I wasn't lying. Not even to Harper, when I said I'd help him—at the time I thought it the only logical choice, and even a satisfying one. I also decided to side with the militia, and I don't regret it. It's easy enough to say every choice is a bad one, but we're making decisions either way."

She ran a hand through her hair, almost agitated. "What's the difference if it still feels meaningless? All the conditions had to be _exactly_ right, or none of this would have happened. Anton believes he's important, that nobody else could do this." She pointed out at the city below. "How arrogant is he?"

"Then why are you convinced that this exhausting work we do, all this convincing and manipulating, has such an effect?"

"Because it clearly does. He was little better than a member of a well-funded street gang before I found him," Eliza said, pointing at Kosra, who was arguing profusely with Melissa. "Now he runs an entire militia, and I've encouraged his beliefs. He wants your nation to burn, far more than he did when we met, and he's barely even a Borginian nationalist. I think he knows, on some level, that what he's doing won't help, but it feels so _right_, and when he falters I'll be there to tell him to keep going."

"And this?" he asked, gesturing at the southern end and the conflict beyond. "It's not one man's pet political project, those people aren't fighting because someone in a uniform told them they ought to. My own work was only ever done despite those orders, not because of them."

"No," she said, far more softly. "Systemic contradictions, things that James and his friends have tried to avoid for far too long. It's been coming for a long time. But they needed a push, and we were in the right place. I think it'll be interesting."

She spoke with passion, of a sort, but it was lifeless. He knew her words and unstated intentions were true enough. "You are going to do it, then? More sabotage, for as long as you can?"

"Yes, I am. Until there's nobody left who agrees with me, and even then, I can't say," Eliza said. "You should be thankful." She looked aside, falling silent for a long moment.

The sky was darkening. It had been too long. She showed no signs of anxiety, looking out at the western coast and the sea. "I don't intend to let that happen," he replied, just as softly. "As unpleasant as it is, I'll tell you what I told your lover. This is nothing more a comfortable series of excuses. Harper wants revenge. You're miserable and surrounded by people and systems you despise. There are so many who feel the same, with far more to lose. Do you think you have this many allies for nothing? You've taken it to a self-destructive extreme, but how could they know that?"

Eliza laughed, and it was the most genuine expression of emotion he'd heard from her. "You really are far more insightful I'd thought. You're right. It is self-destructive, but they do know. Down into the gutter, that's where we're going, and it's invigorating. But who's going to follow you?"

The question was far more piercing than he'd expected, and Eliza's grin told him she knew it. He opened his mouth to answer, far too quickly, but as the viewing platforms lights flickered and grew dark around them he realised their danger.

They both looked back across and he saw Rick watching from the other end. He and Eliza were away from the others, who were under careful watch. Why hadn't Lyra returned? Eliza's face was naturally cold, inclined to morose frowns and blank stares, not the almost cheerful smile he saw now as his eyes adjusted to the low levels of light.

"The entire city," Eliza murmured, pointing at the darkened buildings below. She was right. Most of the city had lost power. The dread returned, and he felt a burst of adrenaline run through his veins, but it was as she said: all they could do was watch.

"Was this you?" He desperately wanted it to be her doing.

She shook her head, hair shining slightly in the fading sunlight. "I had nothing to gain by doing this. Nobody I know is in a position—" she said, trailing off only to look far too curiously at him. "You know lying is futile. Neither of us can stop it now, Edward." Even now she refused to gloat, and he hated that too.

The artillery had remained silent for too long; though the sounds of conflict persisted, they had lessened. He could hear murmuring from the others. They'd finally stopped arguing and had reached an uncomfortable silence.

Even the conflict below fell into the background, no more notable than the sound of his own breathing. None of them were moving; they were all aware of how little they could do.

"He actually did it, didn't he?" she whispered, almost enraptured. The dread he'd felt before her emergence paled in comparison to what he felt then. It was inevitable. Rick saw it first, his eyes widening, and he covered Melissa's face with his hands and pulled her to the floor.

The western command centre shook for a brief moment, the ground beneath them trembling, and within a second they were bathed in an iridescent light outshining the dying sun. A star had been born on the eastern horizon. Those facing the north fell back; Edward turned to face it. There was no overwhelming heat, no destructive force to be observed and felt, and in light of his warnings it seemed to them a great illusion, but all those at its source were burned away in an instant.

The pain was indescribable. His eyes burned with each second, the long distance between them and the Third Energy irrelevant. He refused to look away. Its raw power was indisputable. The city shone with blue-white light, and it was undeniably beautiful, even elegant, a shimmering mass of energy painting the entire world in a new light for a brief moment.

To the Alvernian people it appeared nothing less than a miraculous force of nature and the civil war paused, guns lowered in the streets, both sides enthralled by the sight before them. For one irreplaceable moment their capital shone with the intensity of a thousand suns, and it was seen by all. He looked away at last, falling back in wonder and dismay, and Eliza reached for his arm again, almost tenderly, but she too averted her gaze.

Someone shouted something, he thought, but their words went unheard. Flickering, the world darkened, the Third Energy losing its stability and failing as was inevitable. It faded, losing its distinctive size and shape with a deafening crack they only heard several seconds after it disappeared, the light vanishing from the world as it did.

As Edward's eyes adjusted, still burning, he knelt down, unable even to continue standing. Eliza did the same, almost collapsing and breathing heavily, an elated look in her eyes. Rick stood up first, the fury and condemnation in his features fading as he looked at them.

"It's not too late," Edward said in a harsh whisper, "we're not finished yet." It seemed a futile gesture of defiance. What hope was there for them? Regina was dead, Kesler was dead, and Gail was dead. They had all failed, all but Eliza, and her eyes almost shone with a feverish pleasure.

His words had no effect. Eliza stood up with some difficulty, all signs of cheerfulness gone, replaced with determination. "I promised you a demonstration, Edward, and here it comes. Don't worry. You're not finished, but they are. This is how it had to be."

He stood up, his anger returning, but the rifleman kept careful watch. He ignored the man entirely, following hastily and scowling at the enthralled grin on Kosra's face, ignoring Rick and Hereson's frenzied words, and watched her as she reached them again at last.

"You petulant child. Do you realise what you've done?" Hereson spat, all civility abandoned. He was furious, and diplomacy had been abandoned at last.

"It was beautiful, wasn't it? I doubt we'll ever see something so captivating again, but even the man who made it happen doesn't know what happens next, and he didn't even get to see for himself. I'm afraid you've lost, James. This time it's undeniable," Eliza said, looking between them all.

"You'll never leave this command centre alive. They'll be on full alert now, and that—"

"No," Eliza said, silencing him. "I told your command staff about the Third Energy. I can't thank you enough for putting one of my recruits in charge during your absence, James. We proved its existence, bribed and threatened, and so they agreed: if _it_ happened they'd help me, not you. And if it didn't happen they'd shoot me. What a gamble."

"You're lying. They'd never—"

"Richard. Remember what we agreed. Now is the time."

Hereson looked at her and visibly stiffened. He turned sharply to the side and shouted, "Kirk, run for the artillery command—"

But this time the general was silenced by a single gunshot. The man holding the pistol lowered his shaking hands, the pistol falling to the floor.

The military's commanding officer lay still in a spreading pool of blood, and Richard fell to his hands and knees, sweeping the pistol aside as if it absolved him of the blame. Eliza watched, looking at Edward with a knowing smile. Even Melissa had finally fallen silent, unable to move or speak, but Rick looked at Richard with pity, and it was pity he deserved.

"It was necessary," she said. "He had to die, and his officers must die, but the new leadership would have executed you. Now they won't. This can all be resolved so easily, and the pain fades with time. You'll understand before the end. Until then, a man with your skills is exactly what they'll need.

She turned back, moving from one victory to another. "You should be proud, Edward. It was fascinating, defying description, and all because of your genius." A lie. She hadn't the slightest interest anything so sterile and it showed in her eyes, cold once again. More theatrics, all for their benefit, and they believed her.

"Now, would you like to perfect your creation? We can make it happen. There's no reason for us to be enemies. We have so much in common, after all, and—"

But she had mistaken him entirely, to think that he cared any more than she did. "What a stupid question. The answer was always no, and always will be. Would you like to have one of them shoot me too? Go ahead. See how much I care for yourself."

Let her try to coerce him; there was no price, no reward that could ever be enough. He would, as he'd once told Jane, kill himself before submitting to torture; she would know that much already.

"Don't expect me to do it. You'll have to kill me too," Rick said. His indignation was gone, replaced by a calm certainty. Edward looked at him, and Rick nodded in a show of sudden solidarity.

Kosra gave a pained laugh, the rifle still held in one hand, but he also looked at Eliza for guidance. They were nearly engulfed in darkness; the city as powerless as it had been before the Third Energy had been unleashed.

Melissa stood with Rick, the two of them openly defiant. "I won't either. Kill us all if you want. You'll both be dead before the month's over. I'm picturing it now, and that's good enough for me."

"That's unfortunate," Eliza said, all hints of civility fading. Again she focused solely on him. "You didn't have to mean it, you know, but the choice is yours. Is it grief? They may not be dead, but I'm sure there are cells large enough to accommodate all of you, for however long that's necessary. There's still so much I want to know, Edward."

Eliza's rifleman turned suddenly, looking over his shoulder, and threw a salute. Five figures were ascending the stairway, their faces masked by the gloom.

The man in the lead, unremarkable in every respect, stopped at the top and looked upon the corpse of the general. He was uniformed, Edward saw, and well-decorated at that. His expression was calm, careful, but slowly shifted into a smile.

"A job well done, Eliza. We always knew you joined Anton to sabotage his operation from within, and of course the records will reflect this," he said, almost as if he was sharing a secret with her. "As for Hereson, well, we can't negotiate with traitors, as you've shown. These things have to be done. You've done your country a great service." His words were disgustingly subservient, and they all knew it. She must have appeared a terrifying spectre, able to unleash destruction at will. It wasn't far from the truth.

The tallest of his companions came into sight when she saw the general's corpse and almost ran across, but the man in the lead seized her arm and held her back. "An unfortunate tragedy, Captain, but the man wasn't fit to lead. We'll do what he couldn't, and I'm counting on your support."

Lyra recoiled, he saw, before forcing herself to relax. The look on her face was painful to see, a mix of betrayal and horror, but it too was wiped clean in an instant. She looked across, taking care to hide her interest in him. It made no difference: the interest was a shared one.

"You must be the man responsible for this, how shall we put it, unfortunate accident? Necessary tragedy? The details can be addressed when we better understand the situation," their leader said, looking at Edward as he approached with an almost sycophantic smile. His was a mild smile, reassuring, as was his slow walk and unassuming figure.

"He's not as cooperative as you might hope, Liebert. Go on," Eliza said, barely restraining laughter. She took a step closer, once more ignoring the others. "Tell him what comes next."

Liebert frowned, adjusting his collar. "We'll be consolidating power, of course. Without central command, and we're not quite sure how much of the capital you destroyed, the military has little choice but to take the reins. Speak your desire and we'll accommodate you, Doctor, but I insist on having you onboard."

"Speak my desire? I only wish I'd convinced Harper to target this cesspit while I had the chance. How satisfying it would have been to know that I'd annihilated all of you in an instant. Be silent or leave. I have nothing to say to you or any of your kind."

Liebert smiled, unoffended. "Harper? He and I are acquainted. I'm glad to know he's with us now, but leave the theatrics behind. We have work to do." There was something else behind that mild smile, Edward realised. A gleam in his eye, something concealed beneath his polite manner.

"Run," a woman shouted, and they all turned to see Melissa had seized Richard's discarded pistol. She aimed at Eliza and fired, but the rifleman threw himself in front of her and was shot in her place. A return shot threw Melissa back, the pistol falling once more. Rick pulled her aside protectively, her shoulder bleeding profusely, but Kosra hesitated and didn't fire again.

"That was an inspiring attempt," Eliza said, her uniform stained with the rifleman's blood. He was dying beneath her, and she ignored him. "What did you—"

But she had no chance to continue. Another rifle fired from the stairway, and one of Liebert's guards fell to the floor dead. Lyra shouted at them to run, and this time he realised the opportunity was open and sprinted for the stairway while she contended with the remaining two. Eliza raised her voice at last and commanded them; to do what, he couldn't say. Liebert reached to seize his arm, but he threw him back, slamming the colonel's knee with his boot and eliciting a satisfying scream; within seconds he'd passed them all and was running down the stairway.

Reaching a turn he paused, eyes burning as they adjusted to the emergency lighting. Was he the only one who'd made it? Hurried steps followed, and he turned a corner to wait. There was no use running without assistance. Another shot was fired above. Eliza and Liebert were armed too, he knew, and their chances were slim.

Deciding to face them, whoever it was, he turned back and collided with a woman who recoiled sharply, one hand clasped to her shoulder. Rick followed shortly after, the pistol in his hand, and Lyra after him with the rifle.

He stared at Lyra at amazement. "Why would you—"

"Are you stupid? We have to stop them, you said you wanted to, so let's go," Lyra said, covering the stairway with her rifle. Nobody else followed. "I don't think we got her or Liebert, but I might have hit that bastard again. The big guy. Forget it, we need to go while the power's out or they'll seal the doors."

Her words of caution went entirely ignored. "Where are the artillery commanders?"

Rick looked ready to argue, but Lyra paused, realising what Rick hadn't. "This way." At the sight of his sudden cold anger none of them argued and they followed the tunnels for some time, taking many twists and turns. None of the other soldiers realised what they'd done, and they were allowed to progress unhindered. The artillery control room she found was smaller than he'd expected, and the men inside were idle, but anxious.

"I have a target for you. General Hereson's orders," Edward said as they stormed into the room. They were eager to comply, having expected new orders for some time, and Lyra's rank was enough to convince them of their legitimacy. It was fortunate. He'd been willing to use force if necessary. His location was imprecise, based on landmarks, but shortly after the satisfying sound of an artillery barrage on the western wall resumed.

He apologised, internally, to those he'd left in the west; if they were alive, this was only going to worsen the chance of their survival. He knew Regina would have wanted it done anyway, but it was his own decision, and he was ready to defend it.

As they left, instructing them to continue firing for as long as possible, he realised they hadn't yet been pursued. The lack of power was a contributor, perhaps, but he was growing warier by the minute. For a moment he entertained the idea of returning, attempting to kill Eliza, but Lyra seized his arm and dragged him down a seemingly endless stairwell. That was for the best, he suspected.

The emergency tunnels, as she called them, were only accessible through a long series of unmanned security doors. The lone guard at the final exit questioned them, and Edward thought it best to kill him. Lyra spoke for them, and shook her head almost imperceptibly, anticipating his response.

It was too late. The main lights flickered to life once more, soon accompanied by a blaring alarm. The guard looked at them again, far more questioningly, but Lyra was still hesitant. The choice was taken from them, and he insisted on clearing their credentials with a higher authority.

It made no difference. As he reached for the communicator Rick slammed his pistol into the back of the guard's head and he crumpled to the floor. He then ensured that the guard wasn't actually dead in an absurd show of misplaced concern, or so Edward thought, but Melissa, who seemed rather prone to violence, watched almost fondly without a hint of derision.

They progressed as quickly as possible. If Lyra had thought of the tunnels Eliza almost certainly would have anticipated their choice of escape route. The marble and stainless steel of the command centre fell behind them as they entered a far older series of stone and brick tunnels. Many looked to have been unused for years, likely built in a much earlier time. Others were still well-trodden. Their path took them through the oldest and least traversed passages, and soon he was lost entirely. The sound of the alarms grew faint, replaced by their echoing steps, the occasional splash, and little else.

He was soon exhausted, and called for a short break. None of the others seemed tired, even the injured Melissa, and he covered up his gasps for breath with a pointed question. "Where are you taking us?"

"Can't you tell? We're headed for the oldest, least memorable tunnel I can remember," Lyra said, obviously impatient, but still sympathetic enough not to mention his obvious exhaustion.

It was the logical choice. A tinge of dread, now familiar, returned. "No. Find another one, newer," Edward said, taking another arduous step forward.

"Wait, why? They might—"

"Isn't it obvious? Once you've decided throw that option away too. We'll take the third best exit."

It was. Without another word she nodded, and they took another route, newer and less cramped. There was no more room for error. What they would do, he didn't know. What to expect, none of them knew. Would the fighting stop? Would Royce retreat, would Liebert do what General Hereson wouldn't? It was getting harder to breathe, the air stagnant and humid, his breathing laboured.

He regretted Hereson's death. The general would never be remembered for what he was, but his distant hatred for the man had given way to a reluctant respect before the end. If his ploy with the artillery had worked, and unbeknownst to the others if it had hit the generator while it was activated the western half of the city would have been annihilated, it may well have been rendered useless.

They reached the end at last, a small, entirely undefended exit, and emerged into the darkened city beyond. The artillery battery in the west had ceased firing, he realised, though the southern conflict had continued. None of them spoke for some time, too weary to continue, and Edward realised they were following him, expecting him to have the direction they didn't.

He took them west to familiar territory. It had never been home, but he found the familiarity comforting. None of their makeshift hideouts could ever be used again, and he refused to return to the warehouse under any circumstances. It was difficult enough, he realised, to see the corpses on the unlit streets. As they proceeded west the damage lessened, but most of the checkpoints had been abandoned by both sides, immersing them in an unnatural silence.

The occasional militiaman could still be seen running back and forth, but they looked to have broken as a fighting force. To his slight surprise, the looting had already begun in the areas most recently abandoned by the military. Several areas had been heavily damaged in the last few hours alone, with at least one building they passed still smouldering, corpses left to rot on the road outside. Few were uniformed, he realised with some unease; the military's response, restrained as it had been, had been impossible to resist.

A quiet voice said something, and he realised Rick was murmuring at his side, taking care to be as quiet as he could. "The bleeding's getting worse, and I can't stop it. We need medical supplies and fast, but if we're in the city for much longer I don't think we're going to make it. What's our next move?"

He was right. Melissa had said nothing, but her hand glistened with fresh blood as she held her shoulder. Another one who refused to admit her pain out of a stubborn sense of pride. Lyra was unaware, focused on the streets ahead of them, rifle held in both hands. Rick's sudden lack of hostility was rather noticeable, but not especially surprising.

Not that he had a plan to share. That they'd escaped alive was miraculous enough, but the immediate future promised nothing but suffering. The urge to stop moving, to collapse against the cold stone and give in to the comfort of despair, was growing stronger.

Lyra and Rick were still armed. He could enlist several of the remaining militia members, he suspected, and make a final attempt to assault the generator. They would die, he knew. If not at the hands of Harper or Mirzin than in the aftermath, caught in the streets as the military descended at last, but it would be a satisfying death. As Eliza had said: fulfil your one desire and die as it does. There was nothing shameful in that.

He sighed inaudibly and stopped in the centre of the road, bringing them all to a halt as they waited for direction. It would be hypocritical, he knew. Mindless obedience to an ideal, to a certain vision, and he knew they would willingly follow if asked, down into the gutter and to oblivion. For the first time he understood how Eliza had done it, and it was all so simple.

They were at a crossroad. North or south: there were no other choices. The generator waited to their south, as did closure. To the north, who could say? It would be a long road, and painful. If what he'd told both Eliza and Regina was ever to mean anything, it would have to be done.

"I'm headed north," Edward Kirk said, calm at last. "There's nothing left for us here. She won. We need to acknowledge this, but I don't intend to stop now. Follow me or not: the choice is yours."

He addressed his statement to the open air and the northern road. Whatever desires they had, what had led them to western command on this day, was irrelevant. The choice would have to be made in any case. It still came as a surprise when the three of them followed without another word.

The roads grew even quieter as they continued into the north-western district, as abandoned as ever. The ancient buildings were still intact; the fighting had never progressed to this point, though even in the south it was growing quieter. None of them asked where they were headed. Whether it was anything more than a faint hope or not, he couldn't know.

As it came into view at last the cathedral glimmered ever so slightly in the dark, the faint moonlight shining off its stained glass windows. They'd been alone in the world ever since emerging from the industrial district into the old residential area in the elevated north-west. Now he could see two figures slumped against the white stone of the cathedral, an abandoned rifle at their side.

Even the sight of Lyra, armed and clad in the blue uniform of their enemies, prompted little response. One looked up when Edward came into view; he raised a hand and gave a lethargic wave, unwilling or unable to stand. The watchtower above loomed over them.

The older of the two murmured something to his companion as they reached the ornate doors. His voice was rough, familiar. The same watchman who'd been waiting on their last visit.

"Are you members of the militia?" Rick asked, realising Edward was unwilling to speak. "We're with Colonel Royce, from the independent southern district, can you spare any medical supplies?"

The watchman waved at the door. "Help yourself. Nobody else came back; it's all yours."

It was as he'd expected, but it was no less painful to hear confirmation. Rick nodded his gratitude and took Melissa inside. The watchman stared, not accusingly, and heaved a long sigh. "I'd ask, but I don't need to. You've got that look in your eye now, cold and dead. I don't blame you. We never had much hope." He took another long look at Lyra and shook his companion. She'd been shot in the abdomen, and looked close to death.

"There was a burst of light in the east. What happened after that? Has the fighting stopped?"

"It doesn't matter. Truth is, I can't be bothered looking. See for yourself. I'll keep watch here," the watchman said, snorting derisively. Shaking his companion again, she slumped to one side, motionless. He sighed, resting his head on the stone wall, and looked up at the sky.

They left him there and proceeded inside. It was dark, illuminated only by a small lamp and the faint moonlight. Rick was treating Melissa's wound as best he could, the blood dripping onto the bed underneath. He doubted its owner would care, turning to begin the long climb up the ladder. Lyra, unprompted, followed behind him.

Merestan was all but unlit, the overcast night sky obscuring the moon and bathing the city in the faintest light he'd ever seen. The western command centre loomed over them, the sole source of light in a darkened world, and he could see the edge of the viewing platform. The artillery had fallen silent at last, as had the fleet in the southern sea.

"Look," Lyra said, and he could hear the fear in her voice. The north-eastern outskirts, no longer bathed in the light of the Third Energy, had been overtaken by a legion of vehicles. Armoured cars and troop carriers descended on the city as they watched, the full division stationed under Liebert in the north unleashed at last. In the south he could see the faintest hints of what must have been the southern army under Royce, and they were retreating further south with each minute. It was over.

"It's magnificent, isn't it? That was all it took to turn our victory into the harshest of defeats. It was done so elegantly, and that's enough to leave us some small hope," Edward said, watching as the convoy reached the eastern district at last. The night would be a long one.

"Hope? We're finished, you know we are. You tried, and we made it further than we might've, but it's over. All we can do now is run," Lyra said. She was scared, and he heard it in her voice: the uniform and rifle had disguised the person underneath, but she was still there, and he knew what had to be done.

"Running is the one thing we can't do. She'll find us, one way or another, and I refuse to submit so easily. Let's go. We're going to give them something to fight for," he said, turning back to the ladder. There were raised voices within, he heard, and at least one was a promising sign.

Jumping down the last few rungs, he saw Rick standing, the pistol back in his hand. The doors had opened once more. A woman entered, her dull green clothes stained with mud, grime, and worse, and she stared back silently. She was alone, he knew.

"General Hereson is dead. Western command is under the joint control of Eliza Anders and Colonel Liebert, her puppet. Central command and the capital have been destroyed. Now the military is moving to seize the city, and Royce is retreating," Edward announced, meeting her harsh stare without hesitation. "What news do you have for me?"

She was silent for too long. "You know what news I have. We failed. In every way, we failed. The ceremonial guard were waiting, and by the time we escaped Harper had evaded us. We continued, but it was for nothing. You saw it, didn't you? A star in the east, burning everything it touched, as promised," Andrea Kesler said, a despairing note in her voice.

"What of the others? Did they—"

"I don't know," Kesler said, unable to conceal her anguish. "We were separated, and even when Gail arrived to save us we were outmatched. By the time we fought past the ceremonial guard we were too late, but Dmitri was there, and the Borginian militia with him. They knew we were coming. As for the others, they may have been moving south, but I can't be sure. So many of us were killed." She collapsed into a chair, head in her hands. "It was all for nothing, wasn't it?"

"No," he said, willing himself to have the strength to hold them together. "It wasn't for nothing. Alvernia is finished. There is no central government, and Eliza doesn't intend to rule. Societal breakdown is the first step, and that gives us an opportunity."

Kesler looked up, utterly exhausted. "You're going south, then? To find her?" Lyra's wrist communicator lit up green, and she answered it with trepidation.

It was difficult to answer. Rick was watching, he saw, and he understood. To go south now, to chase a faint hope, would be meaningless. He would kill them all in the process, and if he did find Regina alive? It would make no difference. They'd be condemned to live in a world of Eliza's making, and they were the few left who knew it was her to blame for what had befallen them.

"No, we're not," Edward said, suppressing his doubt. "We're going to gather the remnants of your militia, and we're going to build it into a force capable of doing to her what she has done to us."

Kesler nearly laughed. "It'll never work now. The city's hers. We only survived this long because the state was intact and they couldn't justify the use of force so easily. There's nothing to stop them now. Liebert _is_ a northerner, one of the original revolutionaries, as he put it. At least until she gave him a better offer, and he's been there ever since."

That information only strengthened his belief that this was the only way forward. "You're right. We can't stay here. We'll die if we attempt to move south or east. But the north was already fractured. If we follow the coast past the mountains we'll avoid the military entirely. There are resistance groups in the north, undoubtedly; it was so recently subjugated, and we can enlist their aid." Unless that wasn't the issue. "One failure isn't the end. There was nothing you could do, and your skills are needed more for it, not less."

Kesler looked up, a hint of surprise in her eyes, and Rick approached again, almost cautiously. "We passed through the south to get here. You'll never make it to Polostin again, and they'll be looking for us. Like it or not, I don't see much choice."

There was another reason, Edward thought, to head north. The north was Harper's home, and his justification stemmed from the atrocities committed by the military during its subjugation. Liebert was the northern commander, and the man had just committed his forces to seizing Merestan, leaving his rebellious home province lightly defended. How could Harper ever justify crushing a group so much like his own, becoming what he hated in full?

The opportunity for answers would come then, and it would bring with it the satisfaction of a righteous cause. The state had been crushed, but the military was stronger than ever, and he knew what had to be done. If Eliza would willingly descend into the depths, as she had, so be it; he was no different, but Harper was not like them. Both he and Regina had limits, passionate ideals, no matter how well they concealed them, and it had shown. The life he'd built would be worse than death.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he looked back to see an ever more anxious Lyra waiting.

"Two of the squads I commanded just fled western command," she said, almost nervously. "They were attacked in the barracks by northern soldiers and don't know what's happening, but they said Hereson's staff have all been executed. What do I do?"

He looked back at Kesler. "Well? Are you going to help us, or are you going to wait here until the shock troops arrive? There are easier ways to die, if that's what you want. You know what capture means."

Again, she took some time to answer, looking down at her holstered pistol. It was a comforting option, and always would be. But she shook her head, standing with effort. "Even now, you surprise me. I'll gather anyone I can. I can't imagine many will want to stay here and die; those who do will make their own arrangements. I can handle them, but you'd better know what you're doing."

"Tell your squads to head to the coast directly west of here," he said to Lyra, who immediately complied. "Have them bring any other dissidents. We'll have each group travel separately. And you two?" he asked, looking at Rick and Melissa, though the latter had been sedated and barely looked awake.

"We can't do much without contacting Royce. Even then, I don't know. The Third Energy changes everything, Kirk. I know you tried to stop it, and I'll do what I can to help. That doesn't mean I trust you, but it'll have to be enough," Rick said, returning to finish extracting the bullet from Melissa's shoulder.

It was enough for him. Trust had to be earned, and even then it was rarely deserved. He preferred they didn't trust him, that they would stop him when it was necessary, as it surely would be. Eliza would use the Third Energy as a threat, paralysing both Royce and Borginia. Her allies would grant her everything, and it would never be enough. Even if his efforts had been enough to damage the generator, the threat alone would be more than enough to subdue any force with anything to lose.

He had no illusions as to their chances. There were reasons for optimism, but not many. If Regina and Gail had survived their path would be no easier traversing the war-torn south. It was such a simple thing, to be thrown together and pulled apart again without a modicum of fanfare. If they had died, and he knew it was all but certain, there were two more deaths he regretted.

Never before had he cared, and in one day these four lives suddenly seemed important. His impersonal respect for Hereson, his close connection with Regina—why was it different now? Eliza wouldn't have known either, and that much, at least, was satisfying.

He stepped outside, slipping between the ornate doors, and the watchman greeted him again. To his surprise Lyra followed, rifle in her hands, as if she felt the need to guard him. He made no comment, again recalling Eliza with Kosra at her side. The similarities were superficial, he decided, and if they weren't he would persevere until they were.

The night air had grown cold and damp. He took a deep breath and looked up, almost taking a step back in surprise. The overcast skies were giving way at last, the clouds retreating into the northern sky. Shining through the clouds were the radiant stars, unobscured by the city's lights for the first night in a lifetime.

They watched in silence for some time as the sky shifted, the clouds rolling back and forth, exposing glimpses of a vibrant world concealed just out of sight. There was a calmness to the night, he decided, almost present in defiance of the relentless conflict.

"I didn't know the sky could look like this," Lyra said, so softly he almost misheard her. "It's beautiful. Shame it's so cloudy. Nothing ever happens the way it should."

Edward realised he was smiling, if only faintly. "It's exactly as it should be." A brief reprieve from an endless series of losses, little more than a faint hint of hope as the world collapsed around them. For once he didn't despair.


	27. Chapter 27

_Warning for explicit content. In my country they write 'mature themes' on the box for this sort of thing. Usually it's a sign that you've done something right, and it's easily better written than any of the other chapters, at least in that sense. Dino Crisis and existentialism seem mutually exclusive, but this is barely even a fanfiction at this point. Thanks for reading, if you made it this far.  
_

"You think I signed up to check corpses? You saw it, it's done, so why are we still here?" a woman asked, splashing through a flooded gutter as she spoke. A lone gunshot followed her words.

"You think I signed up to listen to your bitching? This is what the boss wants, and he gets what he wants. Keep searching," a harsher voice replied, failing to hide his exasperation.

"He's got a point," a second man added. "Their big plan got us this far, right? What he wants is fine by me."

The first woman snorted. "Oh, sure. What she wants, that's what you really mean." The sound of another gunshot was enough to show her defiance was in words only.

Their slow, methodical steps were accompanied only by the sound of running water. The heavy rain had flooded Merestan' lower roads, and the conflict had steadily moved south as time passed. The evening air smelled of smoke and gore, and the streets were growing dark. A prone figure lay at the far end of the road, unmoving, and listened as they approached.

The road was choked with corpses. Left with a battlefield to the south and the military checkpoints to the far east, the residents of the south-western district had fled north. It was their undoing. The western coast had been seized, the occupiers besieged, and the masses arrived only to be cut down and forced back in the midst of an extended firefight. Many were less fortunate, abandoned to die on the streets. The survivors had long since fled.

A piercing scream broke the silence and a woman began to shriek. Fevered pleas for mercy and offers of wealth fell unnoticed, and she was silenced as a pistol fired once more.

"What wealth? I wanted to know," the first woman objected, but she was quickly quieted.

"We're not here to loot," her companion said, exasperation turning to ire. "Just do what you're told, and do it quickly." Another man laughed.

"Yeah," she said, "but that's my point. No looting? We're here because we're doing what _she_ tells us to, nothing else. She's one of them, that's all I'm saying. Can't trust them."

Another shot, and a man fell silent. Fortunately, the prone figure thought, a mounted machine gun had cut down dozens on this road alone, and it was easy enough to blend in with corpses on every side. Or at least it had been until they returned, executing and capturing the survivors as they saw fit.

"She makes a good point, boss," the second man said, though he sounded bored. "Since when did Kosra have us executing captives? Not his style. That's how the Alvernians do it."

"Take it up with him. Until then I've had enough. Not another word." They complained for a moment, more from pride than any real sense of opposition. The executions continued without another word.

Left with little choice, Regina had used the opportunity to conceal herself among the dead. Coated in blood, she'd remained there as the sun grew faint in the west, watched as the world erupted in blue-white light around them, and waited to die.

The smell was unbearable, the light fading, and the stormwater ran red. Her right arm lay still on a man's back. He was a militia member, or had been. A bullet through the abdomen had thrown him to the ground, and there he'd remained until his slow breaths had finally ceased, his eyes locked on hers until the end.

They'd been so close, and that, above all else, was the source of her bitterness. Another two survivors were found, one executed and a younger woman captured, as she waited. _If only _preceded all her thoughts. It made no difference. Even if it hadn't happened as it had, their enemies had been prepared.

A veritable legion had been waiting for them. The entirety of the defectors from the ceremonial guard had seized the generator the moment the first artillery barrage had left the southern wall, and they were soon accompanied by the Borginian militia. She remembered Kosra, an enormous man with a harsh manner. It was an act, she knew, a show designed to lure his enemies into underestimating his intellect, but there was little need. He'd beaten her to the ground in seconds then, and his skill clearly extended to strategy.

What could they have possibly done, she thought? Kesler had pulled her from that warehouse, outmatched, leaving Kirk to be seized by the military, but even that was a misunderstanding. Never before had Gail's emergence been so timely. It wasn't enough, and the only solace she had was that he'd sent her last friend back to western command. That much Kesler's men had confirmed, though little else. They could hold until the end. She repeated it to herself, but never once believed the words.

He was better suited to arguing with leaders than scrambling through the mud and viscera, as was all her life had amounted to. Even then, Eliza's words while torturing her were unforgettable. A weapon used for the gain of others. That was her role. At the end it'd been with a body too injured to comply, fighting against a force with far superior strength. It was a cause worth fighting for, she still believed, and one worth dying for. The militiaman's glassy eyes stared back, unjudging and unseeing.

She heard movement, too close to be the Borginians, and someone ran down the road approaching her. A rifle was fired and the runner collapsed in the gutter.

When the Borginians showed themselves, concealed within the great apartment buildings on each side, and joined with the ceremonial guard it was finally the end. Their own reinforcements had been slow but unyielding, but each man who arrived had been lead to his death. Even Gail and his soldiers clad in the deep-blue armour of their enemies had been forced back. She'd seen him at the rear only a short time before the Third Energy was unleashed.

It was the first flash of blinding light in the east that saved them. So few of the fighters understood it, and many lowered their weapons in the street to watch. Regina had fled, slowed by her injured leg, but it'd all been for nothing.

They were close now. Three had spoken, more could be heard walking. They were in control, and had no care for stealth or speed now. Others were searching the nearby apartments, she was sure. The dead man's holstered pistol was almost within reach. She remained still. Killing even one of them would be unlikely, and that was if she could even pull the trigger.

"You think we'll be taking orders from them forever? Feels wrong to me, like we're getting nowhere."

"You call this nowhere? Sure, we'll listen to that bastard just so long as he keeps making miracles happen, but not a minute longer."

"Don't say that. Not even here. You remember what happened to Kosra? She always knows, and don't think you'd be missed."

They were closer. Her heart was pounding, breathing slow and shallow. That Gail had allowed Edward to return while he remained behind: that was a surprise. She was more surprised to realise it wasn't hard to believe. He was charismatic, or could be, and had developed a strong sense of pity. She remembered his description of his last encounter with Mirzin and nearly smiled. That was admirable.

Pity was needed. She hated that he would ever have reason to feel it for her, but that was out of her control. The militiamen were near, having paused to investigate a smouldering storefront.

There was another noise, she realised. Far quieter, barely audible past the distant fighting in the south and the laughing of the militiamen. Whispering. Two survivors, perhaps three, were murmuring to her right. She debated the merits of attempting to speak.

The choice was taken from her. Two gunshots rang out through the street, and two militiamen collapsed to the floor dead. Their killers rose from the ground, separating instantly, and Regina saw the chance. She jumped up, leg seizing under her. There was an alley to her left and she ran, heard one of the survivors gunned down on the spot, and vanished from sight.

More shooting followed, but not for long. Alone and injured, the second man fell, and they were coming.

She ran, knowing the damage it was doing, uncaring, and soon lost all direction. The city was darker than it had ever been, the moon obscured by heavy cloud. Despair set in, and Regina followed an empty path, a road covered with corpses. There was nowhere to run. No direction left, and the western command centre suddenly loomed over her, illuminated once more. There was movement behind and a voice shouted.

Sprinting, she ran until the end of the long road, turning into a side-street. It was a dead end. The concrete building at the end, long abandoned, had been the last point of refuge for four others. Two women, an elderly man, and a young boy. All four had been shot through the head, lined up against the wall, a fallen pistol at the boy's side. The women were clad in the dark-green used by Kesler's militia, and Regina recognised one of them through what was left of her face.

It was too much. Her leg quivered, almost all feeling lost, and she collapsed to her knees. The road smelled of death. Her hands were slick with blood, but she couldn't remember whose. The world was spinning and she realised after a long moment that she'd vomited, but soon forgot that too.

A firm hand pulled her from the floor. "You've been pushing yourself too hard. Why not take a break?" a woman said, voice dripping with mockery.

Regina's hand darted for the pistol, slamming an elbow in the woman's stomach. It made no difference. Her reflexes had betrayed her. The attacker smashed her own pistol against the back of Regina's head and threw her back down. She was young, not even thirty, and her eyes were blank.

"You've got some good reflexes. Military, right? Figures you'd be hiding with the civilians, too scared to show yourself," she said, reaching for her right arm. "But what's this? You're in pretty bad shape. Just relax: I'll make this quick."

Regina seized her arm, bending it back, and threw the woman to one side. She refused to die so easily. Her leg stumbled again, searing with pain, and she fell to one knee.

"I'm trying to do you a favour," the Borginian woman said, rubbing her arm. "Do you know—'

"And what's this?" a man asked, the same harsh voice from earlier. "Having a little trouble, are you? Typical."

"It's not my fault. Military agents pretending to be civilians, what do you expect me to do?" she objected. Her cheerfulness was beginning to take on a different tone, almost pleasured. He noticed it too, Regina realised, and was watching with thinly veiled distaste.

"You're military, are you? Best we do this here," he said, one hand on his hip. "It's a kindness. You wouldn't want to be left to the others. There are worse than her, believe me." He drew his pistol, aimed, and Regina wanted to accept it, but a surge of panic threw her off.

"Wait. I know Kosra. Take me to him, he'll remember," she said, desperate, attempting to stand and failing. "I know them all, I know Eliza, I know Mirzin, I know what caused that flash of light. If you kill me you can expect the same when they find out," She hated herself for it, knew it would make no difference. He still hesitated.

Both Borginians looked at each other, one smiling; the other scowling. "Is that so?" he finally said. "I don't know where you heard that name, but have it your way." He lowered the pistol. "Help her up," he ordered, and his companion complied. "You'll wish you'd taken my offer before the end."

He was wrong. She wished she'd taken his offer far before the end, starting as soon as the makeshift outpost came into sight and she heard the activity within. There were others prisoners with them, most women, some uniformed, and they looked to agree.

"You'll be presented to the officers," he said as they approached the wire fences. "I hope you weren't lying. Even if you weren't, don't expect much. You sure you don't want the bullet? I suppose not. If it goes bad I'll come and find you, alright? Nothing like a second chance." His companion only laughed, smirking as they reached the fences. Regina said nothing.

The air smelled of salt and smoke and the sound of waves on rock could just be heard in the distance. Regina thought she recognised the area. They were near the fuel depot she and Harper and destroyed. Abandoned after the ensuing inferno, it was an ideal location for the militia to use as a hideout. To her surprise, they didn't enter. Two men approached as they did and called for a stop, but the other prisoners were soon sent inside.

"You're back sooner than expected, Johan. Having any difficulty, are we?" the man in the lead said. He wore a speckled tan uniform and looked at Regina with interest. She ignored him. Another man waited behind in the shadows, shorter and far less jovial.

"No trouble, no. They've pulled back. Headed north, last I saw, some south. We didn't follow the southerners. They outgunned us, a heavily armoured unit, definitely military." Johan said, rubbing his eyes. "These are the only survivors worth bringing back."

"What next?" his companion said, looking between them with an excited smile. "We're going to follow them, right? I saw more, I know we can kill them. We—"

"That's enough. Return to base and remain there. Leave her here," the man at the back said. All three turned to look, the officer's face twitching with annoyance. They complied without another word. Regina fell to her knees, utterly exhausted.

"You shouldn't have come back," the last man said once they'd finally left, Johan giving her a meaningful stare as he did.

She spat a mouthful of blood in the gutter to their side. Her entire body ached, and now her leg throbbed even at rest. Several hours spent soaked in blood and water had left her shivering, but her skin burned to the touch despite the conditions.

"Why did you do it?" she said, voice hoarse.

"A week, perhaps, but a month? You expected me to believe in a month we'd make no attempt to contact them? Eliza would never have allowed it, not with him there. Someone was lying. I found my chance, and she had the answers. The rest was necessary. What good was half a revolution cut short at the most opportune moment?" Dmitri Mirzin asked. He approached her slowly, one step after another. "You should have ran while you had the chance."

Regina couldn't help but laugh. "She made sure I couldn't do that. You two could at least try to be consistent."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Before that. At the generator, we all had a choice. You made yours, and I made mine. Neither of us knew, did we?"

"I never knew what a piece of shit you were under that smile, Mirzin," she said, looking up at him with a sneer. "I remember living with the three of you. Harper would betray us, I thought, but never you. I know what he's done. You made it happen just as much as he did."

If Dmitri was wounded by her words he concealed it well. "As I said. It had to be done. Anton wouldn't have gone this far, and this is how far he needed to go. So we forced his hand." He shrugged. "Blame me if you like. I've earned it and more, but this had to be done. I'm sure of that."

He wasn't lying, Regina realised. There was conviction in his words. How could it be otherwise? He'd overseen the use of the Third Energy, defended the generator while a despairing Harper entered, and cut his own people down in the streets all for his ideals. It was a cold passion, consistent, burning under the surface and sustaining his every action.

"So what comes next? You've won. Hereson's going to have to do what you tell him, or you'll blow up his city, but you were here, so where was Eliza?"

Dmitri didn't speak for a moment. His eyes were a dull green, and unreadable. Whatever his thoughts were, they were well hidden. But there was a crack in his façade, she realised, and the truth could be seen within.

The pain and anger faded, replaced by the sense of dread felt only by those facing the inevitable. "Tell me it's not true," she said, hearing the desperation in her voice, well past caring. "They can't—"

"Western command fell well before Harper's return," Dmitri Mirzin said. There was pity in his voice. "You don't think Eliza would stop at something so small, do you? She understands, and she forced the military to understand. Nobody else could have done this."

It was immensely difficult, waiting there on her knees, looking at Dmitri's cold eyes. He wasn't gloating, wasn't mocking her. Underestimating the man concealed beneath his warm exterior was a fatal mistake, she finally saw, and this was true of all Eliza's allies. She'd said as much herself. Understand a man and break him, and Mirzin had yet to break, but he was changed and not for the better, resignation and determination without a hint of pleasure.

"He may not be dead," Dmitri said, not unkindly. It made no difference. "Hereson was executed by his own assistant, but Eliza would have told me if he'd been killed. I'm surprised you care, or would be, had I not met Edward on that night in the park. He felt the same way, you should know, though I doubt he'd ever admit it. If it helps, Gail survived. He fled south along the coast, outnumbered, but I ordered them not to follow."

Regina looked past him. The camp was well-lit in stark contrast to the city around them. The Borginian militia was celebrating their victory, she could tell. It would be no different in western command, the only other source of light in the darkened city. There was one other, a tall figure watching from the shadow of the burnt out smokestacks to their right. She ignored him too.

"He'd be better off dead," Regina said. "There's nothing left for either of us, is there? Piece by piece it all fell away." She refused to speak of Gail. He would take it far worse than either of them, even if he refused to show it until the end. It was the end, she knew, and she restrained the urge to laugh.

"There was nothing for you to begin with. What kind of world is this? Tell me a bullet is any worse than being crushed by years of poverty. It's a kindness. I believe that. The pain is necessary, and so is the deceit, but it'll be a far better place on the other side,' Dmitri said, and she knew he believed it. He too was deceiving himself, she thought, but she hadn't the energy left to tell him.

"There was a time when I might have believed that," Regina said, her voice soft and resigned. "Can't tell you why, but my life turned to shit right after I woke up from that delusion." She let out a long breath, looking down. "Still, I don't regret it. Living a lie gets tiring. You don't feel it, not at first, but it catches up with you. You'll understand before long."

"You may be right. As I said, I've accepted the consequences. I never did respect self-pity."

There was nothing more she had to say. Questions came to mind, accusations followed, but Regina realised almost with a laugh that she simply couldn't be bothered asking. Her entire body ached, the camp waited on one side, oblivion on the other, and her and Dmitri Mirzin between. The silence was a relief, and she savoured it for as long as it lasted, but it too grew tiring.

"I'm done," she finally said, looking back at him. "Can you do me a favour, Mirzin? I told your friends I knew who your boss was, and that's why they didn't shoot me. Now that I'm here, I think I've changed my mind. I know what she'll do, and I don't know what I expected." Regina stood up again with immense difficulty, and he didn't move. "Closure. Yeah, that was it. It'll have to do."

He did pity her, she knew, but there was a hint of respect in his solemn stare. That would have to be enough. The lone figure watched motionless from the smokestacks.

"I understand. I can't let you leave, and I doubt you'd make it far if I did, but I knew what she would do when you were captured and I did nothing. This time would be worse, and you've suffered enough." He paused, hesitating. "Even so, you were a friend, and I hate for it to end this way."

A friend, she thought. It was absurd. There was little that seemed the way it should to her, and that had been so for months, but she preferred it this way. She knew she hated the man before her for what he'd done, but the thought of him as a friend was less troubling than it ought to have been, and she accepted that. Eliza allowed herself to enjoy what she did, and had caused so much suffering while admitting she knew exactly what she was. Whatever else he was, Dmitri Mirzin was no monster.

"Do me another favour," Regina said, and she hesitated. "If… If Edward made it out alive, tell him I did what I could, and not to blame himself. We had a good few months, some of the best in my life, and it was all thanks to him. That's got to be worth something."

There was more, far more, that she felt and thought. It wasn't for Mirzin to hear, and was better left unsaid. He would despair, she thought, if he survived. Blame himself for their failings, for not realising, for not outthinking Eliza, for Jane, for her, for everything. But she thought he had the strength to come to terms with it, even if they were all dead, even if they had failed in every way. That much she trusted him with, and much more besides.

Dmitri Mirzin nodded, gently reaching for the pistol at his side. Escape would mean a slow death; capture, an even slower death. A last kindness from an old friend.

"Tell me. Is Regina your real name? I think he'd like to know."

She smiled, for once without bitterness. "Does it matter? He knew me, I knew him, and not once did I think of myself as anyone else."

He looked at her, and she looked back, still standing. The clouds were breaking, she saw, and the stars shone through in full, unobstructed by the city's many lights. A deep breath, and then another. Dmitri had raised the pistol, was watching, and the fear was there, but she embraced it.

Could he see what she could? Harper had been right. They were free. Not from him, or Eliza, or anyone, but free to admit to themselves who they were, and what they wanted, and if this was the inevitable end it was one of her own choosing. The clouds shifted, covering the stars once more.

"Yeah. That's got to be enough. I'm ready, Mirzin, you bastard. Make it clean."

The peace was broken. A loud splash, the sound of boots on gravel, and the figure had approached at last. She didn't bother looking, continued watching the sky.

"What right do you have to die like this?" he asked, harsh and accusing. Covered in blood, severely injured, and heavily beaten, Regina knew all too well what he meant.

He was all that she and Mirzin weren't. His movements were feverish, grey eyes restless, and his scowl was filled with hatred.

"I asked you a question," Harper spat, seizing her throat with one hand. He held her, his grip tightening, and she hadn't the strength to resist. Mirzin made no move to interfere.

It was impossible to breathe. Finally she looked down, met his eyes, alive for the first time. He was a brief motion from breaking her neck. She made no movement to interfere, no attempt at speaking, but she wrapped her right hand around his arm. Dmitri said something, but she couldn't make out the words, her vision starting to blur.

Harper tightened his grip and her leg collapsed again. He held her upright for a moment, hand shaking, and threw her back. The ground was cold and wet, the pain insignificant in its enormity. It had hurt for long enough, and she could feel little else.

"I ought to bring you back. Eliza would like that, I know she would," he murmured, before taking a long step forward, looming over her. "I'm not going to give her the satisfaction. Get up, if you can. You can die here. It'll be a mercy, and I'll save Dmitri the pain."

She couldn't, and wouldn't. The cold steel at her throat wasn't a surprise. She'd seen it coming from the day they'd met in her hotel, and it was as he said. She seized his other hand again and turned back, suddenly angered.

"Look at me when you do it, Harper. Not so easy, is it? You remember when you killed Pretsin and his wife? What about Hereson's secretary? Have you forgotten her? She trusted you, and you shot her in the back of the head. Every time from behind. Not this time."

His fist hit her jaw, and she fell back and spat out another mouthful of blood. "Don't condescend to me. Not you too. After what you've done, do you even realise—"

"What does it change? You kill me and you'll still be here. What did you tell me? When the goal's achieved you just have to find another, so why bother?" Regina asked, laughing through the pain. There was no hope left, none at all, and he was far more ruined than she'd ever been. "You don't even want this, do you?"

A sharp crack in her ribs elicited an agonised cry, the force of his kick unrestrained. He was a far more pitiful sight than she would ever be.

"You've done it at last. Let me guess. The capital?" Regina asked, coughing as she spoke. "How does it feel? Everything you were hoping for, everything Jane wanted? You should be proud."

He was beyond enraged, moved to continue the assault, but Mirzin seized his arm and pulled him to a stop. "Enough. Don't blame her for your own mistakes."

Harper pulled back, brandishing the knife, but they were covered in rubble as a thunderous boom in the west reignited the conflict. The artillery on the western wall fired, one piece after another, and the coast was torn asunder on all sides.

Mirzin jumped back, drawing his pistol. "She told me she had it under control. Don't they realise the damage they could do?" he shouted, looking at the looming spectre above as it flashed with incoming devastation.

The ground shook beneath them as the burnt out smokestacks crumbled, breaking apart, and Regina threw herself to the side, standing with her weight on one leg and ran for the darkness in the east.

Harper and Mirzin were separated too, and the former had been ready to gut his ally, so directionless was his fury. As Regina ran she looked back. Harper watched, the knife at his side, uncaring as he was showered in rubble, and he vanished in a cloud of dust and smoke.

There had been a look of loathing about him, from his eyes to his posture, and she knew he was also willing to die, even awaiting the day. A deafening boom shook the world and she covered her ears, so painful was the sound alone. They both knew she was all but dead, she hoped, reaching the end of the road, covered in dust and coughing profusely.

An enraged shout followed and her heart sank, a burst of sudden fear pushing her forward, and she ran for the southern coast, the last choice of refuge. Breathing was nearly impossible, her lungs choked with dust and smoke.

He was alive. That was her hope. The entire battery fired again, and the nearby factories burst apart as the shells landed, but she forced herself to continue. Who else would know to fire on the western coast? He was alive and he'd escaped from Eliza, or had killed her; nobody else could have done it, that much she had to believe. Even now he was fighting the inevitable. She would have to do the same.

The road ended abruptly. They were near the coast, the world empty. A figure waited behind at the far end, cloaked in shadow, following her every move without haste. The steel in his hand gleamed in the faint light, and he had no care for their danger.

Fear turned to panic. Death had been a comforting prospect when it was her and Dmitri alone in a world of darkness. Now there was hope, and the man stalking her was no Mirzin. Directionless wrath and unending anguish defined his life, cemented in place by the events of the day, and there had been no release, no pleasure, taken from his use of the Third Energy.

Turning to flee further south, Regina looked over her shoulder. Harper was close, uninjured, his hatred turning to a cold resolve as she met his eyes. Her leg dragged behind her, barely functional, boot scraping along the ground. He was content to take his time and wait for the inevitable.

It wasn't long. The artillery fired again, further to the west this time, and she slipped around another corner. The coast was there at last, the waves crashing against the shore. The buildings were dark, abandoned to begin with, and she could hear steps behind, methodical and unwavering. She inhaled as sharply as she could and continued, slowing with each step, no longer able to run.

"There's something rather comforting about facing death like this, wouldn't you agree?" he asked, calling out to her as he followed.

There was nothing left to say. Stumbling as she stepped in a sandbank, Regina pushed herself forward, hearing gunfire further in the south. It wasn't enough, she knew, and he was close behind.

"Bringing _her_ there to kill us, that I didn't see coming. You didn't expect your old friend Gail to ruin the surprise, did you? He cares for you, you know. Dmitri said he sent Kirk to western command, and Eliza will love that. He'll kill himself. I know he will, and so will Gail, and that just leaves you." He shouted the words for all to hear, but they were the only two left.

The slow irritability and weariness present in Harper's voice ever since his return from Ibis Island were gone at last. He sounded energetic, almost cheerful, but there was undisguised spite in his words. It only added to the feeling of being hunted, delaying an inevitable end. She looked for a weapon. There was nothing left, any and all corpses stripped of their valuables.

"I thought you didn't care," she shouted back, "Not about your own life or any other. Why the change of heart?" Arguing the point was futile. They'd entered, seen the three of them fighting, Jane holding a pistol to his chest. There was no time for thought, and Kesler had done as she'd been trained to do. He knew, but didn't care. The delusion was a comfortable one.

The artillery had fallen silent at last. If the damage had been done, she couldn't say. There was a chance, and that was enough. As they reached the coast in full she stumbled, the sand dunes coming as a fatal surprise, vision blurring, and fell to her knees again.

It was a beautiful night. The waves were close now, the city quiet behind her, and she breathed in as much air as she could, savouring the salty taste, forgetting the pain.

"This is familiar," Harper murmured. He was standing behind her, having followed in that same methodical way until she hadn't the strength to move.

"It's time," Regina said, looking back to see if he remembered. "I never did know what you meant."

He was looking past her, eyes fixed on the open ocean. "We went to meet Kesler, didn't we? I'll have to do the same again. It never ends."

"You'll never let it end."

He looked down, a hint of surprise breaking through his anger. "You may be right. When should I have let go? Long before we met. Eliza is the same. I thought I loved her once. It's easy to think that when for so long you've felt nothing. Just an illusion, nothing more. She and I are the same, and that's not a word fit for either of us."

"Jane didn't think so," she said, softly, flinching in anticipation of another blow.

And indeed, his anger returned. "What gives you the right to say that? After all I did, she died like the rest, fighting for nothing, drowning in her own blood."

"She told us. Alvernia would fall apart, you always said, and she just hoped you'd finally be happy. Nothing else. You were a miserable bastard when we met," Regina said, meeting his eyes again, "But looking at you now, I'd say you're the most wretched person I've ever known. At least she didn't have to see you now, and don't try to blame Eliza this time. You chose this."

Too far. He nearly hit her, freezing at the last minute. "You've some nerve. This had to be done. Don't you see that?"

"Why?" she asked, without a hint of accusation. "Central command is gone. The military hasn't arrived yet, but I bet they're on your side when they do. You won, Harper. Not twenty minutes from here, what do you think they're doing to the prisoners brought in with me? Those are the ones who weren't just shot in the head. Twenty years, and Borginia haven't forgotten. Business as usual, it seems to me. Some world you've created."

The knife gleamed in the moonlight. He had yet to raise it, almost unwilling to move. He was a terrifying sight, standing there alone on the shore of the sea. All Regina could feel was pity.

"So much pain," he said, much more softly. "It was mine, at first. We shared it, those of us hidden away out of sight, the rest of you told we didn't exist. Understanding: that's what was needed, and you'll all share it now, but it's not enough. Why isn't it enough?" The anger gave way to desperation.

"Didn't it work? Dmitri's like you now. He got what he wanted and he barely looked to have noticed. Cold and lifeless, just like the rest of you. He says it's necessary. It's ridiculous. You don't know how to stop, can't admit you might have been wrong. I was wrong. I've been wrong more times than I can count, just an endless series of mistakes. It hurts less to admit it."

"It was never enough, and it never will be. That's what I won't admit. Why do we exist? I should have died a long time ago, hidden away in some forgotten place, and Jane should have lived. But this was no world for her, or any like her."

"I doubt she would have agreed," Regina said, not unkindly, but with certainty. "A man who never wanted to live chasing a perfect world. You'd never know it even if you found it, would you?"

He didn't have a response. There was activity to the south, intruding on the silence, but no more shots came from either side.

"Why did you ask Dmitri to execute you?" he finally asked, almost cautiously.

It was a surprising question. She held up her right hand. "I'd had enough. Going back meant torture and a quick execution if I was lucky. Eliza is a monster and you know that. Even if he had let me go there was nowhere to run. I'm not afraid to die, Harper, but that doesn't mean I don't want to live."

His arm moved, slowly and stiffly, and he traced the blade's edge with his finger. "That should be enough." He raised the knife higher, looking at it in the light, brushing his neck with his other hand. "You were free, and you chose a peaceful death. Not as easy as you might hope, is it? I know you weren't to blame for Jane either. The fault is mine."

"Nobody is at fault. Not you, not Kesler, not even her or Kirk for fighting. What are you going to do after this? It won't make the slightest difference and you know it."

"Eliza will want to see me. It'll all be forgiven after this, I know, but it's never as simple as that with her. I could kill her, but I know I won't. She knows I won't. I could kill myself, but I know I won't. It's pathetic, but I started on this path for good reason. Even if there is no perfect world at the end, even if all I've done is worsen it all, I'll see it through until the end."

The faint glimmer of hope faded. He understood what he was doing, knew the cost, and once the rage had dimmed chose to continue as he had. She didn't blame him. The alternative must have appeared no better, an invalidation of his entire life, tantamount to the suicide he so often neared.

The cold steel at her throat returned, his grey eyes fixed on hers without hatred. She felt the pressure increase, stiffened as it did, but didn't look away.

"Such a simple thing, to take a life," he murmured. "You're so close to death. One movement, that's all it would take. Would you kill me, if you could?" He held the knife even closer, hand twitching slightly.

The answer took no thought. "I would. It would be a kindness, wouldn't it? Even if it weren't, you have to be stopped."

His arm fell, and the knife with it. There was pain in his eyes, but a sort of thankfulness she'd never seen before.

"I'll remember. It'll be enough for now, to see me through the days I see coming. It won't be pleasant, and that's how I prefer it. Down into the gutter. That's where we'll go, and we'll drag the rest of you down too if you don't stop us."

She almost didn't understand, thought it a cruel trick much like Eliza would have played. He stepped back, away from her, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

"Follow the coast south, if you can. Gail went that way not long ago, and Royce's men are loading refugees for the journey south. There's nothing left for you here."

"Why?" she began to ask, but he cut her off.

"It seems the only people I can't kill are those who most deserve it. You don't deserve it, if I'm honest, but I know you'll come back and kill me. A sane man would eliminate the risk now. I am not a sane man. If you can't make it, here's your alternative. It's as good a place as any."

And with that said he turned to leave, throwing the dagger down at her side. The prospect of attempting to kill him occurred immediately. Her legs were barely functional, arms stiff and sore, entire body aching. By the time she wrapped her maimed hand around the blade he was fading into the distance, returning north without a single glance back.

A long time passed, or so it seemed. Harper's last words of advice were a gift, and she didn't question them. Lie or not, there was no alternative. He was, as she'd said, the most wretched person she'd ever met, lashing out aimlessly in every direction, despairing with every success. He wasn't lying when he said there was hope to the south.

The southern quarter was new to her. Aching with each step, Regina endured the long walk south, refusing to add her body to the hundreds already littering the streets.

It was a grim scene. Many buildings, old and beautiful stonework, had been destroyed leaving little more than smouldering rubble in their place. Corpses were everywhere, looters prominent, and the knife was a comfortable companion, warding off trouble. The area had been left uninhabitable, flooded with stormwater and debris, ruined streets running red with the blood of their inhabitants.

Many others were fleeing south as Regina arrived, and she joined them without a word. Some suffered worse than she had and still pushed forward; others fell and were left to die, too severely injured to justify helping, the looming threat of the military and the Borginian militia written on the faces of every person she saw.

There were uniformed soldiers, she realised, shrinking back as they came into view. Few at first, and the crowds seemed to trust them, swarming towards them for assistance. She realised each one wore a red badge on his torso, shining through in stark contrast to the deep blue of their uniforms.

They were nearing the military port, the earlier attempt to retake it evidently having failed. It had been a costly victory. Two burnt out tanks blocked the eastern road, the buildings on each side devastated in the offensive. One still burned, and the sky above was choked with smoke.

Emergency supplies were distributed by the soldiers, most with a similar badge. The perimeter was lightly held, almost devoid of armoured support. What supplies they had were soon exhausted, and the soldiers were few enough that they could easily be overwhelmed by a sustained push toward the port. Regina reached them only for the man there to shake his head, frowning, and gesturing at her to hurry for the next station.

The refugees were entering through a gate in the far distance, she saw, holding a darkened lamppost for support. Harper's knife was at her side, but barely a glance had been spared for her by anyone. One of the soldiers was shouting directions, and the crowds followed with barely restrained haste.

It was growing harder to concentrate. Her vision blurred, breathing slow and difficult. One leg had almost ceased to function entirely, and dragging it along the ground was an easier task than attempting to walk. Others had suffered worse. A woman no older than her could be seen at the far end of the enormous stretch of road before the port's open gate. She was missing most of her left arm, the side of her face severely burned, supported only by a desperate man holding her upright.

Another man pushed her aside, dragging a boy no older than twelve with him. Attempting to speak, to ask for something, though exactly what she didn't know, her words never came. The boy stared at her, or rather through her, his eyes wide and unseeing.

It was no use. She let them go, watched them running for the gates, and slowed to a stop. Where were they going, and why? Eliza had won, and she was so tired, muscles failing at last. There was nobody left, Harper and Mirzin the last to know who she was, and she pitied them both but hated neither. Had he too survived? There would be no refuge for Edward Kirk, no mercy or understanding at Eliza's hands. He had escaped. She still believed it.

Regina's bruised face hit the side of the flooded gutter. She didn't notice. Her hand clenched around the dagger, tightening as much as it could. It was the same one, she realised. Her eyes burned, and so she stopped looking. The day they'd met, and every day since, he'd kept that same dagger at his side. It was an interesting note, she thought, but that was all.

"Come on. You going to make me drag you?" a rough voice asked, and she felt herself pulled out of the floodwater, her arm thrown around a muscular shoulder. "You're about five minutes from the port. Don't die on me now, you hear? I've seen too much of that for one day."

There was something familiar in the voice, she wanted to believe, but she also found myself wishing he'd left her there. The fatigue and pain had blended together, and even thinking was too much. His hand, calloused and scarred, felt her throat.

"Got another one, she's been roughed up pretty bad," he shouted, and another voice answered, but she couldn't make out the words.

"See? You even get to jump the queue. Special privileges for those with the worst injuries. Thank the colonel for that one. Not everyone agreed, but he convinced them," he said, beginning to say whatever came to mind. "Lucky you made it this far. It's beautiful in the south, warm and sunny. I never believed it either, but you'll see. Just tell me if you're still awake, would you?"

The colonel. That seemed familiar, and her mind worked it over for a moment.

"Rick, is that you?" Regina murmured. "I told you to watch out for Anders. Right here, wasn't it?" She nearly laughed, coughing instead. "You came back in better shape than I did. That's something."

The effort was unbearable, but she opened her eyes. The man supporting her was tall, muscular, middle aged, and not Rick. A long sigh followed, but she was barely disappointed. He was long gone, she knew. The soldier holding her upright had stopped moving, and she stared up with unveiled confusion.

"Those names," he murmured, uncertainty in his voice. "How could you…?"

He was interrupted by a stern-faced woman approaching from the gate, demanding that they hurry. Her head fell again, losing the strength needed to watch. They spoke briefly, and she heard the woman shout at someone else, flinching at the noise.

They reached the interior of the port with difficulty, slowly and carefully. Triage teams awaited within, and Regina was treated well before those who arrived with her. There was something unusual about the process, she thought briefly, but she hadn't the strength to care.

A man arrived before long, just as the painkillers were taking effect. They were non-sedating at first, the doctors said, as insisted by the soldier who'd accompanied her inside a small, cramped medical tent.

"So, what's the problem? I've got two hundred who need treatment and loading, and a defence to manage until they're finished," the newcomer said. His voice was soft, almost caring despite his blunt words.

"Might be one of your priority targets. Can't be sure. She didn't say much, just what I told you. Looks like she's been tortured pretty recently. Beaten too, by the look of it. Leg's infected, finger's missing, and there might be more. Might be best to question her now; you never know how long you've got when they come in like this."

"I am listening, you know," she murmured, and he stammered a quick apology.

The newcomer was surprisingly young for an authority figure. His youthful looks and blonde hair shook her more than she expected, but he wasn't anyone she knew. His face was a conflicting mix of youthful charm and other, less desirable traits. His skin was sallow, hair brittle, and his eyes were hollow. He could easily he have been a patient himself, if not for his dark blue uniform and red badge.

"Good. You're safe now. I'm Lieutenant Morton from the independent southern district. We're taking you all back to Polostin. It's only going to get worse here."

She tried and failed to restrain a laugh, holding her limp arm up. "I figured that one out long before you, Morton. I know it all, and more. Is Rick here? I left him with you people, but that was a while ago."

It was hard not to be hopeful. The doctors worked as she lay prone on a makeshift hospital bed. For the first time in many months she wasn't being hunted. Rick would have found a place here, surely. Harper had told her as much. Even Eliza had told her as much.

But Lieutenant Morton's soft smile faded. He looked more like a corpse by the minute, and Regina realised his breathing was slow, laboured, even at rest.

Finally he shook his head. "He volunteered to negotiate with General Hereson, as did another. We sent them to western command yesterday." He paused, hesitating, and looked at the entrance before looking back. "They did not return. I'm sorry. He was my friend too. They both were."

It was hard to feel any surprise. It didn't make the pain any easier. Rick had always had the stability, the sense of purpose, the rest of them lacked. What could be more precious than a sense of purpose now?

She took some comfort, at least, in knowing that he'd gained their respect and admiration enough to be trusted with such an important duty. Fighting for something he believed in. That was the only thing Rick had wanted, and she knew it had finally happened. Dying in an attempt to avert a civil war, to put an end to the horrors she'd seen and endured for months. Rick deserved that much, at least, and so much more.

"He may not be dead. There's still some hope," she murmured, looking between them. "Is Gail here?"

"What do you mean by that? And Gail? Hereson's loyal pet, wasn't he? Last I saw of him was on Ibis Island," Morton said, grimacing as he finished.

"He fled south, I know he did," Regina said, suddenly panicked. "Check your captives, or something. I'm not telling you anything until you do."

Morton stared back, silent, for a long moment. Regina refused to look away, and before long the shame of trying to outstare a tortured, half-dead refugee got the better of him.

"Fine. Check. Tall, blonde, muscular. Doesn't have any other names. Ask any of the military prisoners, check the refugees if you have to. These guys used to be SORT, so don't be surprised if it takes a while."

As soon as his companion left Morton sank down, kneeling at her side.

"You sure you don't need this bed?" Regina asked, only half-joking.

He grimaced again. "I'll be fine. We've all lost something, and I'm not going to start complaining now. They all agreed. I might not be fit for combat, but I can still lead. You might be facing the same choice, take it from someone who's been there."

Remarkably free from bitterness, his soft words were almost soothing. It was growing easier to concentrate, and she suspected their choice of medication had done this deliberately.

"Did Royce make that decision?" she asked, hoping he'd elaborate on exactly what sort of reception she'd be expecting.

He glanced up, surprised. "We put it to a vote among the officers. Strange, I know, but he's in charge because we think he's right for the job, not because he got us into this mess." He sighed. "Not that it matters now. Eliza told us as much. Leave now and we can keep the south. Keep fighting and she'll do to Polostin what she did to Central. What kind of a choice is that?"

The stern-faced woman burst in, looking frantically between them. "Lieutenant Morton, the military's reached the western quarter. Our perimeter guards are pulling back; even with reinforcements, we can't hold this time. This is it."

Inhaling sharply, he stood up again, hiding the exhaustion she saw in his eyes. "We've waited long enough. Start loading the injured. We'll leave the minute the last is onboard." He looked down at Regina. "I hate to ask, but can you walk? It won't be far, I just can't spare the manpower unless I absolutely have to. Don't push yourself if you can't."

"I'll be fine," Regina said, throwing herself off the hospital bed. She was not fine, and collapsed in an undignified heap. "This is too much," she muttered, suddenly bitter. "To make it this far and no further. How humiliating."

"Don't even pretend you're going to give up now. You're better than that, and always have been," a quiet voice said, firm and harsh.

She looked up, unbelieving. Tall, clad in deep blue, his blonde hair slick with mud, uniform bloodied, Gail was watching from the door. Morton waited, glancing between them both, and left them alone.

The harshness in his voice was familiar, but it didn't match his expression. There was no scowl, no look of condescension or disinterest; none of the lies and masks Gail used to hide himself were present. The faintest of smiles showed for a brief moment as she met his eyes, faded, and that was enough for her.

"Can you forgive me?" he asked, abruptly and with effort. "It was my responsibility. You, and Rick, and how many more? I've lied to you more times than I can remember. I sent Kirk to western command. I didn't see what Anders was, not until far too late—"

The words came in a great rush, as if he were listing crimes to a court, and she couldn't help but laugh. He was the same man she remembered, but he'd changed, and for the better.

"There's nothing to forgive. You did what you thought was right, and so did we all. Don't give up on them yet. I know Rick, and I know Edward Kirk too, and they're not finished yet. You saw that last artillery salvo? That was them. One last fist in the face to spoil Eliza's big night."

"How can you be so sure?" He wanted to believe her, she knew, and his words had softened.

"I can't. But I want to believe it was them. Whether it worked or not, it makes no difference to me. I know he would've done everything he could to stop her, and you did the same. Hereson can't have been all bad or you wouldn't have helped him for so long, right?"

She ran out of words, and Gail stared intensely. It wasn't a cold stare. Now, at her lowest, slumped in a half-dead pile on the floor, he finally looked upon her with the respect she'd always hoped to earn.

"Now could you help me up? I've nearly died more times than I can count tonight. Missing the last boat out of here would be a poor way to finish."

Gail hesitated, almost unsure. "Even now you're still doing it," he said, pulling her up. "Pretending you're any more sure than the rest of us, holding us together. You're everything I wanted to be. By the time I understood, it was far too late."

They emerged into a crowd of soldiers and volunteers, each doing what they could to load the worst of the injured onto the transports. A ship waited at sea to receive them. Gail fell silent, a calm reassuring presence at her side, holding her upright, helping her through the long walk to the ship without the slightest criticism when she fell or stumbled.

The sea was calm at last. She slipped in and out of an uncomfortable sleep as they waited for the last of the injured to be loaded, the military's advance units closing in from the north-west. Gail's shoulder was a comfortable place to rest, and he made no complaint.

"We're going back, aren't we? It all started with Royce. Feels odd to know we'll see him again. What if he doesn't trust us?" Regina asked, barely audible past the waves and the murmur of the crowd.

The transport finally began its journey, approaching the warship to the south. Lieutenant Morton was one of the last to board, the stern-faced woman helping him across. He saw Regina watching and flashed a warm smile, if only for a second.

Gail almost seemed unwilling to speak, watching the crowds to their side. Refugees and soldiers mixed without care for rank, the former captives unwatched. He and Regina were no different, two among hundreds. For the first time in years they weren't separate, weren't aside and above, but a small part of something larger, and she felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

"Leave him to me," Gail finally said. "We're all responsible, and there's no point pretending otherwise. He and I are both fools, aren't we? How many years did we ignore what was right in front of us? After what Eliza's done he'll have no choice but to admit it."

That was good enough for her. They weren't alone, even now in the bleakest of times. It was never too late to see what was missing, and they were all stumbling in the dark, unsure, grasping for a hand that couldn't be seen. The hand was there nonetheless, she chose to believe, and so did Gail, and the hundreds around them stripped of everything in a single afternoon and faced with a future that promised only sorrow until the end came for them at last.

There was some comfort in that, she thought, and she hoped that the others understood, wherever they were, and pitied Dmitri Mirzin and Eliza Anders for willingly descending into the abyss, for fooling themselves into thinking there was anything valiant in the effort. There was no point to be proven, no perfect world awaiting at the end, only what little comfort could be taken in a life defined by suffering, until that too became bitter, and there was nothing left to sustain them.

No more was said as they reached the warship, other transports arriving with theirs, and boarded for the uncertain journey south. Regina allowed herself to let go, to embrace the comforts of warm food and shelter freely offered, and watched until the Alvernian coast and the war-torn city of Merestan faded into the distance.


	28. A3: Chapter 28

"I can see the changes. I know they're real," the man murmured, tracing his reflection in a carved window looking out on the western ocean. He tapped a finger against the glass, leaning on the windowsill. "And here I am, same as ever."

It was a quiet afternoon, all but free from the incessant gunfire and the plumes of smoke that had come to define Merestan's skyline. Empty streets, silence, and a calm tranquillity. A comfortable lie for the few who dared to believe it.

The reflection staring back at him had short black hair, unreadable green eyes, and an expressionless face. Guarded and wary, one mask of many. His shoulder ached with a deep pain and he pushed a finger into the stiff muscle. It had never healed, and never would. The pain only worsened as the days grew colder, winter quickly approaching. He hoped that was the only reason.

A tapping sound drew his attention away from the window. He stood alone in a reception area. Tiled blue and white, it was as polished as ever, the halls richly decorated. He hated it. It ought to be seized and smashed, the wealth returned to the people it was stolen from. One week under their control and the change was less drastic than it needed to be. There was still time.

"You're here already? Reliability is such a rare commodity in these times, don't you think? I've been stuck in meetings since well before sunrise, but these things can't be avoided," a man said as he passed through the doorway, moving forward at a laboured pace.

The speaker was a middle-aged man, unassuming in appearance, his uniform as well-decorated as ever despite the recent changes. One hand was wrapped around a crutch, his knee having been severely damaged in an incident he refused to discuss.

"Can't be avoided? I suppose so," he replied. "Why worry about something so insignificant?"

Taking a seat with an undisguised sigh of relief, Jean Liebert shook his head. "Reliability is at the heart of civilisation. We agree to do something, and so we do it. Making the right agreements is the key to a successful life, I'm convinced. You should know that as well as I do."

"I suppose it depends on how you define success," Dmitri Mirzin said. He didn't mistake Liebert's implication, but let it go unanswered.

"My way has worked remarkably well so far. Yours as well. We both jumped ship the second it was necessary, and not a moment earlier," Liebert continued, the same soft smile on his features. "Don't mistake me. I'm impressed. Most men twice your age lack that wisdom. It'll take you a long way, if you let it."

Dmitri ran a hand through his hair, exasperated already. Compliments and advice, all tinged with the same hint of mockery. He didn't bother to answer. Men such as Liebert eagerly seized the slightest opportunity, whether in conversation or politics, and they were good at what they did.

Unfortunately the wait was to be a long one. Ten minutes of uncomfortable silence passed, soon turning to twenty. The occasional sound of annoyance came from the colonel, but Dmitri wasn't fooled. They were calculated displays of emotion, hardly genuine.

"I suppose you don't know why we're still waiting?" Liebert finally asked, impatience superseding civility. "If this continues I'll have to reschedule four meetings." Having four meetings in an afternoon was undoubtedly the sole determiner of a man's worth.

But another twenty minutes passed, and soon Liebert seized the phone at the empty reception desk to begin rescheduling his meetings with a great deal of sighing and muttering.

"Really. I agree to stay here and manage your affairs, and this is how you treat me?" Liebert said. Only his words were irate, tone calm and mild as ever. "Consistency keeps the world running, and I expect you to remind Eliza of this. It reflects poorly upon us all."

Dmitri raised an eyebrow, hands clasped behind his back, and resisted the urge to laugh. Oh, of course, he thought, Liebert would never tell her himself. The double doors to the long hall beyond remained closed and unmoving. One missed appointment and the world hadn't collapsed yet.

"Jean, I need you to go away and manage my affairs," a soft voice said, and they both froze, stiffening on the spot.

Standing at the other end, not within the hall at all, Eliza Anders smiled cheerfully at them both from the entrance to the reception area.

Liebert stood up immediately, leg seizing as he did. His pain went ignored, courtesy and fear coming first, and he smiled warmly. "How can I help?"

Eliza took another step closer, pausing for thought. She glanced at Dmitri for a fraction of a second. It was hard not to be flattered by the attention she showed him, at times, and the hints of emotion so rarely shown to others.

"Well, let's see," she said, slowly and carefully. "I know. Kosra must be lonely in the hospital. I don't think anyone's even sent him flowers. How about you go and do it?"

"I, send flowers to…?" Liebert spluttered. It only lasted a second. "Well, we do need to ensure our Borginian friends know just how much we value their services. Excellent thought. I'll have my secretary work on it immediately. Will there be anything else?"

He was good at this, Dmitri knew, better than most of them, and that was why Eliza wanted him here. Someone who enjoyed bureaucracy balanced her tendency to allow these things to deteriorate. It was still a humiliation, and Jean Liebert knew it.

"Could be. You'd better go find out," Eliza said, shrugging. "Go on. Dmitri. I need your help."

Liebert left with a smile, retrieving his crutch as he did so. She nearly laughed at that too, he knew. That was too much exuberance for his liking. On his end the plan had worked perfectly. Hers, not quite as smoothly. Even the slightest mistake could ruin it all, but she seemed unconcerned. He didn't share her optimism.

"That was a mean thing to do," Dmitri said as Liebert passed the guard at the end of the hall.

Eliza laughed, turning back to stare at him. "He earned it, don't you think? Would you finish the rest for me? People like him need a firm leash around their throats, so think of something suitable."

He raised an eyebrow. "Something more important on your mind?"

"He's coming back today."

Suppressing the urge to grimace, he matched her cold stare without hesitation. Eliza despised subservience, but didn't particularly like being questioned either. It was enough to give him a headache.

"I would say I'm surprised, but it would be a lie," Dmitri finally said. "What does he want, and how are we handling it?"

"There's only way to handle it. Exploit all those little doubts and fears hidden away in his head until he doesn't remember what's real and what's not. It's not hard. People like it when you have answers, Dmitri, whether they're true or not."

"And how do you intend to do that?" Dmitri asked, doubtful.

"Being here does half the work for us. Discrimination leaves its scars, and he was treated as inferior for so long. I don't think the wounds ever heal. How will it feel, do you think, to see us here now? The unstoppable state military, and the two of us have done what he couldn't. The rest isn't for you to know."

No, Dmitri thought, perhaps it was better that he didn't know. Ignorance could be a soothing thing, much as he despised it. Even so, the risks were enormous. If Harper had changed his mind, suddenly regretted what he'd done, he could easily overpower her.

Seeing his hesitation Eliza frowned. "I wouldn't lie to you, Dmitri, and I don't intend to die so easily."

His scepticism was obvious and she continued, almost insisting that he believe her. "One death never solves anything. You'd still be there, and if not the military would take back control. He's not stupid, and if he was?" She stepped forward, uncomfortably close. "We could burn away his homeland, for instance, and he knows it."

That wasn't necessarily true, and she'd already anticipated this argument. "Whether it's broken or not is irrelevant. The threat is enough, and there's a backup generator."

"Under enemy control. We'd be better off destroying it before they realise."

"Oh, don't worry. Borginia left a surprising amount of biological weapons under that island. Before I left I prepared for this situation, and right now Anton's garrison ought to be too busy to care. Anthrax. I think that was what they were hiding in those canisters. How careless."

His façade failed, the shock on his face undisguised. "Necessary losses, no doubt." More images returned, an alley choked with corpses, a row of executed prisoners. How could he object?

"A loss, yes, especially for them. But I see you're not convinced. He's a useful tool, Dmitri, even if the rest has faded." She hesitated a moment, and that was rare enough. He wasn't convinced. It was an absurd risk, and for what?

But Eliza reached for the base of her shirt, pulled it up slightly, and he saw a dagger strapped to her side, thin and nearly imperceptible from the outside. "See? You worry too much, always have. It'll all work out the way it should."

"I'll take your word for it," he finally said, deciding not to bother protesting. Her ribs were far too exposed to be healthy, but that observation also went unexpressed.

Satisfied, she pulled him back down the corridor and away from the meeting place entirely. He didn't object. The labyrinthine command centre was theirs to do with as they pleased, and nobody bothered them, though the upper halls were all but abandoned.

"Tell me," he asked, suddenly aware that now he was expected to make these decisions. "How should we keep the military occupied? If we allow it to break apart too quickly, well, you know the risks. Until then they'll expect direction, and if we don't provide it they'll find someone who will."

Stopping at an entirely unmemorable location, Eliza turned back to face him. "You're not wrong. Let's see. All these details, sometimes I forget," she said, shrugging. "I don't care right now. I need to be left alone. I'll tell you when to come back, but feel free to handle it on your own." And with that sudden rush of words she turned around again and left for the direction they'd came from.

Definitely too much exuberance, Dmitri decided. Rubbing his eyes, he reached the end of the long corridor. A uniformed guard stared back at him from the door, eyes widening, hands tight around her rifle. It was absurd. A week before she'd have executed him on sight.

"Allow nobody else through, not even Liebert." he said, pausing for thought. "And if you hear anything unusual, contact me immediately."

The guard nodded, straightening her collar. "Yes, sir," she said, entirely emotionless.

"There's no need to call me that," he said, and the guard nodded again. She didn't believe him. Irritation turned to anger and he pushed past her. Would they never learn?

"Do as you like. Just don't let anyone down that hall."

Official hierarchy or not, he'd never been fond of strict authority. That he and Eliza had taken over with the looming threat of destruction, supported by the army or not, was frustrating. A military coup. That was how some viewed it. The rumours had enough fuel to work with, and he felt the muscles in his jaw tightening as he walked.

In one night General Hereson, unofficial national leader, was executed for treason. The man responsible was a ruined mess, the only high-ranking officer to survive the purge Jean Liebert. On the same night Central was burned away by a miraculous burst of light and Eliza Anders and Dmitri Mirzin, wanted fugitives for months, had taken command, unofficial or not.

He knew how it looked. It was necessary, but all the quick glances, the veiled fear they both saw: that was hard to accept, even if Eliza didn't care. Something would have to be done.

Reaching the elevators, he paused for thought. He and Eliza agreed on their course of action, but Harper's emergence would force it all from her mind. It was frustrating, though he found it hard to say why. He descended to the second level. As populated as ever, the administration offices were in a state of disarray.

Central command may have been rulers in name only, but including in the estimated nine hundred thousand burned away by the Third Energy were a great many administrators. Western command was not equipped to continue their work. The details weren't his responsibility. Those institutions would be rebuilt in time but on a democratic basis, guided by the people who needed them, not distant overlords.

Turning away before any of them realised who he was, Dmitri left for a long corridor to the right. The prospect of wearing a uniform again occurred to him, but was firmly dismissed.

He could see the coast through the windows as he walked. Many buildings still smouldered a week later, the south-western quarter all but destroyed. Its people had survived, ferried south to Polostin, and so he allowed himself to feel no guilt.

The pale blue sky was a comfort to look upon. Deep under the coast the generator waited. Whether it still worked or not was irrelevant. It should never have been used, and he never wanted to see it used again. The city streets were filled with soldiers, Liebert's entire division having stormed the city a week before. There had been little resistance.

Dmitri shook his head, turning away from the window. Rumination was a poor habit. It was growing harder to feign optimism. When the mounted guns had finally fired he'd seen a hundred cut down in a minute. It would happen again. He focused on the corridor, smooth and polished, to distract himself.

Reaching his destination, two guards at the door saluted him. When would they understand? He flashed a weak smile, too frustrated to argue, and entered the gleaming white hospital wing that serviced the command centre's staff.

It wasn't hard to find the man he was looking for. The soldiers wounded in the fighting were treated elsewhere. Most of the officers had left for the morgue days before.

"Isn't this nice? I was getting lonely, not one of you showed up for days," a cheerful voice called out, drawing a frustrated glower from the nursing staff. They both ignored that and Dmitri approached, the same weak smile on his face.

"We've been busy," he said, and it was a poor excuse. His eyes shifted to a vase of fresh flowers, and that made his smile a genuine one. "Liebert stopped by, I take it?"

"He said he felt obligated to pay his respects," Kosra said, grinning widely. "Don't you only say at funerals? I'm not a corpse, and how many around here can say that?"

No, Dmitri thought, he had more life than most. It was hard not to appreciate the sheer strength radiating off the man, wounded or not. Even then, leaning up in a hospital bed, it was undeniable. Muscular and heavily scarred, Kosra's chest caught his attention and that of half the nursing team.

"You're recovering well, I take it?"

Kosra laughed. "Bullet to the leg and somewhere else with a name that's too long to remember. Here," he said, showing a bandage at his side. "Missed anything important, so that's something. The one with the purple in her hair, she did them both. I've had worse."

Dmitri raised an eyebrow. "You've had worse? How many injuries have you had?"

He pointed to one of the scars on his chest. "My ex-wife gave me these, and she wasn't half as pretty."

"You were married?" The abruptness of the question inspired another internal cringe. So few of the people he knew had bothered. Most of the officers told themselves there would be time later in life, he knew, whether they believed it or not.

Despite all rumour Anton Royce had never once shown interest in any woman, on his staff or otherwise. His own adventures in that realm had been limited to the nights he'd gone out drinking and awoken in strange surroundings with unfamiliar company. Royce himself had joined in more than once, he recalled with a slight smile, though he'd been forced to put an end to it as his fame grew.

"You're surprised?" Kosra objected, leaning forward. "Seemed like a good idea at the time." He laughed again, though it sounded strained. "I don't regret it, even if she did put a knife through me."

Taking a seat, Dmitri took a closer look at their Borginian ally. He was no older than forty, likely in his mid-thirties. It wasn't so implausible, and why should it be? Still, he knew the reality. Marriage could kill a military career, especially if you were a woman. Unsaid or not, it was no coincidence that the most successful female officers were those like Eliza: externally cold, impersonal, and bestowed with a natural air of superiority.

Even the oppressors were oppressed. "Not a lot of us find the time, living this way," he finally said.

"That's an excuse. I don't blame you, but it is. Some of us need something a little warmer in our beds than whatever you think keeps you going." He smiled again, his tone surprisingly gentle. "Don't mind me. Getting shot always makes you act like this."

That much was true. Flexing his left arm unconsciously, Dmitri knew it still lacked the strength it'd once had. "So why are you here? Not much time for pleasure on assignment, I'd think."

"Well, that's a tough one. Put an end to imperialism: that's what I used to say. The money's not bad either, especially now. My daughter's going to be rich whether I come back or not." He hesitated, looking over at the window. It looked out on the sea. "I don't know. Truth is, I'm good at this and I don't what I'd do if I stopped. Took me a long time to admit that."

"You have a daughter?" He could sympathise with the older man's sentiments, but the rest of them had no such baggage. He had distant family, none he cared for still living.

"Oh, sure. Lives with the ex-wife's family. She didn't get custody, not after she stabbed me. Must be," he trailed off, grimacing. "Fourteen, I think. I don't know. Lost track of time a while ago. I pay for everything, send back the odd letter. I'm an awful parent, really. Maybe you're the smart one."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Dmitri exclaimed, realising too late it wasn't an insult.

"Why do you think I use this stupid pseudonym?" Kosra asked, reaching for a jug of water. "You should hear the way the nurses talk about you two." He poured a glass of water, drained it, and poured another. "The guy who pulled the trigger on that bomb, or whatever it is—he's not the one they're talking about."

"You don't want to be associated with us, is that it?"

He shrugged. "Can you blame me? You and the boss don't look the type to live a long life to me, if you want the truth."

Dmitri leaned forward in his seat. "Is the alternative any better? Necessary sacrifice. Nothing more."

"Yeah, I thought as much. She likes you, though. More than me, anyway. You two threw it all away to make this happen. Careers, stability, everything. What did I give up? I'm just a contractor. Sure is easier when someone's at your side, right? Nobody wants to die alone, and she's no different."

This check-up was taking an uncomfortably philosophical direction. His impression of Kosra had been that of a particularly capable killer and not much else. Assumptions were dangerous. "So what makes you think that? You did all you could."

Grimacing, Kosra shook his head. "Not quite. On the night it happened I shot this woman, used to be a friend of mine, through the shoulder and not the head." He shrugged again. "Seemed a waste to kill her when we'd already won, but you should have seen the look I got for letting her live. What was the point? Anna's just like me; it's not like she knows what's going on."

That much he could understand. "Eliza isn't fond of surprises."

"That's what the other guy told me. Liebert. When I came here from Borginia he was the kind of guy I was hoping I'd get to shoot. Slimy bastard. Offered me a share of the spoils for _support_, whatever that means."

A cold spike of anxiety broke through his malaise. "Support? You declined, at least."

Kosra laughed. "No, I didn't decline. I need the money. I don't think he likes you much, all this talk of revolution and handing valuable assets over to the poor. Make me a better offer and I'll support you instead."

"Do anything without my approval and I'll have your identity broadcast to the public as a mass murderer," Dmitri Mirzin said, his voice suddenly icy. "Would you like your daughter to see what you've done? Hundreds shot through the head and left to rot on the streets. Your work."

The older man's smile faded, replaced by a guarded stare. "Wondered if you'd play it that way. Fine. It's not my problem, is it? But I didn't order them to do that. The boss did, and I had more than one complaint about it."

"Does it matter? I'm not asking much. Tell me if he contacts you again. Clearly our message hasn't been communicated properly."

Kosra looked unimpressed. "I've heard that one before. Always ends with someone getting a bullet through the skull. Suit yourself. When this goes bad I'm taking the first ship out of here and enjoying my reti—"

He was interrupted by a crash at the door. A man stumbled through the wing outside, knocking over a chair and sweeping the contents of a desk onto the floor. He made a loud declaration, though in such slurred words neither of them could make his meaning, and fell against a wall for support.

The nurses moved to action immediately and one of the guards held him down. Uniformed and filthy, he tried to break through and failed.

Someone else followed him in, clothed in black and shrinking back from the violence. She held up a pistol. "He tried to shoot himsel—"

The second guard threw her against the wall too, seizing the arm holding the pistol. She gave no resistance, almost limp, but the other man threw himself over and knocked the guard to the floor. He received a boot to the ribs for his trouble, the pistol spinning off to one side.

Kosra fell silent and Dmitri stood up. The woman glanced over, a flash of recognition in her eyes. Rising, the second guard kicked his attacker back down.

"That's enough," Dmitri said, unable to hide his anger, and they fell back immediately. "Is this how you handle all your patients?"

"She had a gun, sir. Your life was endangered," the first guard said, the sycophancy unbearable.

"Pretending they were ever a threat embarrasses us both. Do you think I'm an idiot? Pick him up."

They did so with difficulty. The doctors returned to take control, carrying the now disturbingly quiet patient toward the doors at the rear end. "Leave her here, and don't try anything so stupid again," Dmitri added and they complied, fortunately leaving without argument.

A dull ache was growing behind his eyes. The sickly smell of cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol lingered in the air.

"Thank you. They've done that before, but I ran away. Oh well," she said. There wasn't a hint of emotion in her voice, almost a dry apathy in place of the expected fear.

"I'm surprised. I never thought he'd care," Dmitri said, more to himself than her.

"You made him kill a man who trusted him and throw his body off a rooftop. That's not easy for most people." More apathy, but her words disturbed him. Disturbed, not surprised. Of course Eliza had forced Richard to personally dispose of the corpse.

"He's here, isn't he? I saw him on the central stair," she said, and he forced himself to look at her more closely. Shoulder length black hair, messy and unwashed, and terribly pale skin. He almost laughed. The man in the hospital bed looked healthier than anyone else he'd seen all day.

He still didn't answer. He knew who she was talking about, was contemplating feigning an excuse to leave. Discussing Harper was not one of his priorities, and the reason he'd asked her to stay eluded him.

"Did you kill Gail?" Miranda Pretsin asked, and this time he knew he couldn't ignore her.

"No. It may be necessary if he attempts to come back." A reunion in the south. It was possible he'd stay. Anton had always been peculiarly fond of the lifeless and stern agent, even to the point of making excuses to see him in person, he and Eliza had once speculated.

"He'll be back. I told him we picked the losing side. Well, we didn't really pick it. Or I didn't. I just sort of ended up here, and now they're all gone." She looked back at the door, a slight hint of concern showing, if he interpreted it optimistically. "He never cared about that."

"If they attempt any opposition it'll end badly."

"Probably," she said, looking down the hall. "Richard was too drunk to realise the pistol wasn't loaded until it was too late. I threw the ammunition out a window. It's not so easy without a gun, but he didn't think it through anyway. Didn't know where else to bring him. We've been hiding out on the fourth floor since it's all burnt up now."

"Yeah, that's my fault," Kosra said. He was no less cheerful, though it sounded forced. "It's not my business, I know, but I can smell the booze from here. You might want to put the bottle down. I was there once. Never helps as much you think it will."

"I had to comfort him," Miranda objected, meeting his eyes with her listless stare. "How else do you do it? All he wanted to do was drink until he couldn't remember." There was an undercurrent of energy in her speech, subtle but growing more pronounced as she spoke.

Dmitri recalled her father as a co-worker. Quiet, stubborn, and private. Something about the entire situation felt wrong to him. "Your father once told me you weren't to be served alcohol. It was a public event, you remember? Medical reasons, he cited." He said it indifferently, but felt some responsibility nonetheless.

Finally the apathy faded, replaced by a hint of irritation, almost unease. Kosra shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and Dmitri sighed. What was he to do with these people?

"Don't be alarmed. You don't have to tell me," he said, and he could see the relief in her eyes.

"No, I don't. It doesn't matter anyway, does it?" Miranda said, walking over to the window and pressing her face to the glass. "Everything feels different now. It's all still grey, but I see a hint of a dull green or blue. It'll all be boring again before long. Are you ready for that?"

The bemusement that appeared on Kosra's face was outmatched only by his own confusion. The hint of caution he felt, as if there were something familiar in her words, didn't go unnoticed. "There's nothing left to go back to. No central government, and a weakened military ready to fall apart. Change is inevitable."

"No," she said, tapping the glass. "It'll stay like this until we don't remember what we've lost or what we've gained. It all fades away." Looking back, she realised how perplexed they both were and smiled faintly. "Don't mind me. So how much of the military _was_ destroyed?"

He hesitated, and Kosra answered for him, much too smugly for his liking.

"According to our new administrator you lost forty percent of your fighting force when Central vanished. Turns out another twenty percent are scattered around or deserted. Doubt you'll see them again. Most of the others are stuck here with us, and the rest are running around in the south," he said, listing the figures off on his fingers with far too much vigour. "He did a lot of gesturing and waving too, so I suppose that's worth mentioning."

"More than I expected," Miranda said, nodding slowly. "But still not enough, is it?"

"What kind of question is that?" Dmitri recalled her the night of the massacre. There was a gleam in her eye, more focused and attentive than her calm, apathetic manner.

"I don't know what you want, but to me it looks you're just breaking everything you can until nobody's left to put it back together again."

Vague accusations delivered in a calm, even curious voice. He didn't know how to respond. "It's necessary," he stated with all the certainty she lacked. "You don't mean to say you think our society was worth saving?"

"No, I didn't like it either. The doctors wouldn't treat me without money, and since they wouldn't treat me I wasn't stable enough to work anyway. Well, that's in the past now, or so you say," Miranda said, leaning back again the window. "I just think if I were you I'd be scared. What happens when there's nothing left to destroy? Who rebuilds society? Is it you?"

He hesitated, suddenly on edge. They were questions he'd often asked himself, and his only answers were vague ones. "I doubt it'll be me. None of us, really, are fit for the task."

To his immense surprise Miranda smiled, and it was such an odd thing to see on her morose face that his own guarded mask slipped for a moment. "I knew it," she said. "This should be entertaining. You remind me of Gail, except he wanted the exact opposite. Stability at all costs. How dull."

The undercurrent of energy was growing with each word. Kosra leaned forward again, drawing their attention. "While we're here, you mind telling me if she's right? I hear he's taken the bait. The guy the boss has been chasing. Harper, or something."

The distraction, at first welcomed, had taken a bitter turn. Miranda listened intently, her grim look slipping back into place. "He's here. I saw him."

"Interesting day. He's a braver man than I am," Kosra said. "I saw how she likes to torture people. Some think it's all in how you use the knife. Not her. Mess with their minds, that's how you do it. Once they're ready you start cutting them up. Sometimes I wish I didn't know that."

"I thought about stabbing him," Miranda said, looking intently at Dmitri. "I liked my mother. He murdered her on the street for nothing. It should be easy, but I didn't try. Maybe next time."

'You might not need to," he said, if only tentatively. "Killing him might be more merciful than letting him live, especially if Eliza has her way. Unless that changes I'm afraid we'll have to keep the knives sheathed."

Kosra laughed again, but Miranda looked at him curiously. Too much honesty, he decided, moderating his calm smile with effort. She began to speak, cut herself off, and looked aside. An uneasy silence overtook them, and the return of the medical staff insisting she answer their questions came as a relief.

Miranda made no complaint. Polite and compliant, unnervingly so, he thought. Seeing her again he felt nothing but a sombre sense of regret. So many had been victimised.

"Oh, Dmitri," she said, turning back at the doorway. He glanced over, surprised. "Can I see you again? You're interesting. Not many people are worth the effort, but you might be. We'll see."

All he could do was nod his agreement. It was her choice, but those around him usually came to unfortunate ends. Of those who'd worked in Royce's office he and Eliza were the last still together. The last to join them, Regina, had suffered immensely in the months that followed.

He slumped down as Miranda turned the corner. Either way, they were all his responsibility now. That was so absurd he couldn't help but smile. It was easy enough to claim what you were doing was necessary, to tell yourself you were right. To prove it? Much harder, but it would have to be done.

"Tell me something," Kosra asked. "How far do we take this? I look out my window and I see an army in the streets. Usually not a good sign, you know? People like her and that poor bastard in the hall are the ones who really suffer, not us."

Dmitri didn't answer, deep in thought, and Kosra sighed. "You can keep quiet if you like. It's not me you have to answer to. Times like this, an army's going to love it if you give them a target and tell them they deserve it. Don't do it and they'll find someone who will."

"I expect you'll know before the day is over," Dmitri said, turning to leave. There was no use putting it off any longer. "Keep your men in line and expect a bonus. I expect they'll be needed before long. Keep an eye on those two, would you? As you say. It's not their fault."

"Do it yourself. She barely looked at me, and you could use the company. Trust me," Kosra said, still grinning.

He didn't bother answering. Kosra didn't have the luxury of refusing. It soothed his mind, as he left the hospital and returned through the busy halls, to know exactly what the man would do and why.

A small crowd had gathered at the row of elevators. He pushed through, far too busy to wait, frustration only growing with each minute. He decided to have the remnants of the military's intelligence service gather information on Kosra. A real name would be a start, Dmitri thought, and so would the location of his remaining family.

Ascending to the fifth floor with a group of uniformed office workers, all of them trying and failing not to stare at him, Dmitri left with a sudden sense of purpose. This was how it had to be done. Quick, decisive, unwavering, yet with enough room for movement to give them the illusion of freedom.

Colonel Liebert's new office had been chosen for its size and prominence. Direction was needed, and perhaps they had none of worth yet. Would they move so decisively in the south? Regina had understood what that artillery barrage had meant. To go from a calm acceptance of death to such relentless struggle? And she'd been right to make that conclusion, all but certainly to their detriment.

He'd pitied her, not wanted to see her dead; even expected Harper to do it. Those were excuses. So many had died because of him, but far fewer at his own hands. To stand back and let a person die, to not intervene: was that murder? He forced the thought from his mind.

Sitting at the end of a conference table with two senior civil servants, Jean Liebert waved a warm greeting as Dmitri entered, ignoring his lack of reciprocity. They were sorting through a stack of official documents, Liebert signing some, shaking his head at others.

"What can I do for you? We're sorting through a tedious collection of case files. Nobody's quite sure how to handle the courts, you see. It's all well and good to start arresting people you don't like, but how do you deal with them without a judicial system?" Liebert said, shaking a handful of documents to empathise his point. No resentment, no hostility this time, Dmitri noted with satisfaction.

He looked over two of the documents. Wealthy industrialists both, noted for supporting the worst elements in society. He set them back down.

"All arrested in the last week, I presume?"

Liebert nodded, sighing. "Someone ordered it done. I suppose you would know better than I. Still, these men are important people, and it'll take some time. Many can be persuaded to see reason, no doubt. It's the easiest way."

"Not quite," Dmitri said. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. "Have them executed. All of them."

The look of shock, of outrage, on Jean Liebert's face: he would never forget it. He stood up, nearly falling over as his knee gave way.

"That's a bit extreme, don't you think? Stripped of property, even, but execution leaves a certain message, and we—"

"That's a good point. A fitting message would be better. Have them thrown off the southern wall."

More outrage, more spluttering followed. "What sort of message do you call that? Your reputation is stained enough, both of you, mass murderers. I'm trying to hold us together, can't you see if I follow you down that road—"

"You can follow us down that road, or you can follow your friends," Dmitri Mirzin said, glancing down at the papers, "all four hundred of them, it should be, when we take them to the highest wall and tell them to throw themselves off or be shot. That's the message we'll send."

True to form, Liebert saw the path of least resistance and followed. His outrage shifted, vanishing in an instant, replaced by feigned thoughtfulness. "If you insist," he grudgingly said, waving away the assistants. That alone would start more than enough rumours. "And what about the property? The wealth?"

"Forget about it. They're dead, it's unimportant. Leave it all to rot. How well defended did you leave the north?"

"Well enough, I suppose. My people aren't much of a threat. Not much civility to be found there, I'm afraid, except in those of who took the deal."

He could picture the corruption and inefficiency even from there. Liebert's defence budget would wind through many complicated paths, all ending in the senior officer's pocket.

"Have your defences strengthened, and expect trouble. I'll expect I'll have some names and faces for you to look at later. These people are to be executed on sight, you understand?"

"I can see this is going to become a pattern," Liebert said in a moment of dry honesty. "Does Eliza approve? I hesitate to ask, but I know who was seen on the central stair. Don't expect much policy direction from her for a few days."

A bitter point they could both agree on. "You knew what we intended when you agreed to support us."

"Indeed I did. Duress is the word that comes to mind," Liebert said, shrugging helplessly. "We all do what we must. Any other edicts I have to issue?"

"No," Dmitri said, turning to leave. Reaching the door he stopped. "Oh, I suppose there's one thing. Send the soldiers most loyal to Hereson to the far east. Tell them they're to search for survivors from Central."

"That may end in tears. The eastern district sent their own rescue team, and as Eliza requested I've stubbornly refused to tell them how we intend to proceed," Liebert said. He raised a hand, sitting back down. "No, I understand. I had wondered why she seemed so fond of you. It's quite clear now."

If not for the exasperation in the older man's voice that would have been quite the compliment. Twenty-eight years old, raised in poverty, and here he was. What right did he have to send thousands to their deaths?

They weren't exceptions, weren't special. He believed that. Nobody could ever be seen for who they truly were, and it was a truth that tormented Eliza, but he chose to believe what little he could see was worth fighting for. Elitism in all its forms was to be purged. Whether they had the right or not was irrelevant. They had the means, and they had the reason, and it was too late to turn back.

Leaving Liebert's office he saw himself again in a window looking out on the calm sea. It was exhilarating. They gave no resistance, and should they? It was a difficult thing to have direction. Making that first step, forcing a faint idea to become reality: that was even harder. The man looking back had a confident stare, green eyes shining without a hint of hesitation.

A series of harsh vibrations in his pocket came as an unwanted interruption. He stopped in the centre of a hall, one hand clenched into a fist. Irrational anger, and he knew why. Eliza had summoned him back to the summit. More games, and for what? They ought to have had Harper shot in the back of the head as he entered.

He turned back, returning to the same long, empty corridor. The details had to be perfect, and there was good reason to comply. Even so, when he saw the lone guard again he asked to borrow her pistol. The slightest excuse: that was all he wanted. They'd come too far to leave any more to chance.


	29. Chapter 29

The silence was broken only by swaying fields of windswept grass and the sound of rustling leaves. It was a land defined by rolling hills and verdant meadows. Cramped woodlands crowded around slow-moving streams, broken only by the occasional field of wheat soon nearing harvest.

They were peculiar sights and sounds. The distant forest and rising hills, the deep blue sky, even the warmth of the sun: a sense of timelessness could be felt when observing the plains. Birds fluttered from one perch to another. The branches of an ancient oak one moment; the eaves of an old wooden cottage the next.

Clean air and a landscape free from decay and ruin. A far-away refuge, quiet and unchanging, or so it had once appeared. It was difficult to believe, and harder to adjust to the open landscape. Any potential threats would remain unseen, concealed by the hills and forests, until it was too late to respond.

The slow crunch of gravel from behind brought with it a burst of adrenaline, quickly subdued. Racing thoughts, eyes never still, overwhelming urges to keep moving. No change in scenery had ever put an end to those instinctive reactions.

The crunching stopped. "Here again? I never knew you were so interested in trees," a woman said, amiable as ever.

"You're not supposed to be walking," Gail said, immediately turning back to admonish her.

"I'm not. Always so quick to judge."

His scowl faded as readily as it had appeared. Leaning back in a wheelchair, unfazed if her external show was an accurate indicator, which it wasn't, Regina still refused to address anyone without a healthy serving of mockery.

If his smile could be believed the man pushing the wheelchair found that amusing. Calm and composed as ever, Dylan Morton met his eyes with a meaningful glance. That didn't mean much. Morton often appeared, distracted from his duties, whatever they were, by thinly disguised curiosity.

At first Gail had thought he was there to spy on them. The best medical care, comfortable living space on the outskirts of Polostin, an admittedly serene rural city: they'd been given everything they needed and more. All the refugees had received similar treatment. He'd asked for no information they hadn't volunteered, though they'd offered much, and made few requests at all. Now he found it hard to say.

"It's different, isn't it?" Gail asked, suddenly finding the silence unnerving.

"Not being in that city, or not being in the military?"

"Both," he said, turning to leave. He needed to keep moving.

Little more was said. All three of them were uncertain, spoken or not. It would take longer than a week to adjust, especially for Gail.

Fortunately the hospitals had taken in any and all, seemingly unconcerned with payment, and for that he'd been grateful. Her wounds had been severe enough. Infection and exhaustion could easily have killed her had they not arrived when they did. Drastic as it was, she'd been condemned to immobility until walking would do no further damage.

A great deal of upheaval had taken place in the south, he knew, though it seemed peaceful to him, marked by cooperation and an unusual solidarity. He'd seen the price paid for their success, such as it was. Central destroyed, the west marred by civil war and the military occupation, the north little more than a desolate wasteland. It was too familiar for his liking.

They reached a row of terraced houses and approached one on the closest corner. Much of Polostin had been sparsely populated, he'd learned, especially along the outskirts. That had changed. Cobbled and crowded, the street was alive with activity. Immediate work had been undertaken to repair and clean the old housing. There was little else to do, and the pretence of routine seemed a comfort to many.

Seizing the opportunity to leave the wheelchair behind without delay, Regina reached for a crutch by the door and stood up. Neither of them bothered to complain.

"Well, that wasn't so bad. I told you he'd be there," Dylan said, leaning on the doorway. "I need to head off for a while, but I can come back later if you'd like. Work's slow for a military man who can't be in the field." He concealed his bitterness admirably, but Gail knew it was there.

"You might as well. It's not like I'll be going anywhere," Regina said, fumbling at the doorhandle with her maimed hand. Neither of them offered to assist.

"Right. I don't imagine I'll be going far either. See you soon, unless we all go up in a flash of light before then."

Gail gestured for him to wait. "You delivered my message?"

Dylan grimaced, nodding slowly. "Yeah. He didn't seem too interested this time either. I'll ask again." Suddenly eager to leave, Dylan left and threw himself into an old car, waving back at them as he left for the south-west exit. He always drove east, Gail noted, with this one exception.

"What's that all about?" Regina asked, ducking down to fit through the cramped doorway.

"He's avoiding me. Here we are, and not a single question."

Regina turned back as he entered, and rested one hand on his shoulder, as much for balance as comfort. "Is that so strange? Nice as it is here, the confirmation's in. Most of the military took the bait and joined up with Anders. Not just her. Mirzin too, like they're equal partners now, or something. Maybe they are. They have to be pretty busy with the defence."

"That's why it bothers me. We know more than most, especially you. How do they expect to plan a counteroffensive without knowing what we do?"

She shrugged, throwing herself down in a seat near the window. The crutch collapsed against the stone wall with a thud. "I'm just glad I'm not going to prison."

"I wouldn't allow it."

It was a source of shame, Gail thought, that for a slight second she looked surprised. Falsified crimes, acts of necessity: he wasn't so rigid as to ignore the reasons for her actions.

"I never worried too much about that," Regina said, waving his shame away. "It's all history now. Do they even have prisons here? Seemed like Mirzin's new friends favoured executions. I did what Royce asked me to, anyway, and he still left us there. He'd better not complain now."

He took the seat across from her. Asking questions was difficult; refusing the opportunity even more so. "And what did he ask you to do?"

"You don't know? You were friends, I thought. Twenty years, was it?" Regina asked, tapping the wooden table with one finger.

A moment of hesitation; one that didn't go unnoticed. "Eighteen years. We met in Borginia," Gail said, leaving it there.

"Long time. Longer than I've known anyone. You must have been close."

"Once, maybe. We didn't speak much. Toward the end we'd just sit there, silent. Anton never told me the truth, but he didn't like to lie either."

"Funny how that works, isn't it? Some people you can know for years, and there's a sort of distance that never goes away. Others, well, a couple of weeks can do a lot. Never did know why."

That was uncomfortably accurate. The way Anton spoke, his ambitions, his proposed reforms, even the way his speech and manners had changed near the end, grandiose and impersonal. The Ibis Island mission's true purpose had been undeniable. Gail had seen it coming. Seen it and ignored it. Professionalism was a mask, and rarely a comfortable one.

"Kirk refused to continue his work, didn't he? And you were supposed to change his mind."

"Good guess. Didn't happen the way he expected, but I don't think anything did. It all worked out in the end, much to everyone's surprise. You know he was thinking about smashing that generator near the end? Who'd have thought?"

"I'm not as surprised as I should be," Gail said, if hesitantly. "One day you realise you've seen too much. He should understand that better than most."

Regina said nothing for a long moment. One hand slowly wrapped around a lock of red hair, the last of the black dye washed out the day she arrived in Polostin. "When was that day? Recently, or..." She trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

He wanted to voice his agreement. Abandoning Royce, his only real friend, or the day of the massacre, they were likely choices; a week prior, when all was ruined, an even likelier choice. The lies had lost their appeal.

"Sixteen years ago. We came back from Borginia and they offered us a chance to leave the military. I turned them down," Gail said. He looked at the comforts they'd been given. He couldn't recall the last time he lived in a house, not a base. "I thought I was the only one who'd stay. We didn't discuss it, not once, but the first day back we were all there."

Regina didn't respond, but she didn't look away either. An anxious weight, something he'd barely recognised, lifted from his chest. She knew what they'd done, had likely always known. A comfortable silence overtook them, and they sat there for some time bathed in the afternoon sun.

"It's nice here," she eventually said, tracing a finger over the window. "But you don't look relaxed to me. You never have."

"It's not important," Gail said, waving her concern away.

She hesitated, something rare enough to catch his attention. "It is important," Regina said, almost murmuring the words. "I knew a man who could never relax. Never satisfied, never happy. I don't want to see you become like him."

One hand, out of sight under the table, involuntarily clenched. "Kirk?" he asked, eyes darting around the room, checking the escape routes.

Regina shook her head. "No, not him. He could relax. Didn't happen often, but sometimes. Never when you expected it." She looked aside, a faint smile fading as she did.

Gail faltered, tempted to leave on some pretext. "The northerner?"

"Yeah. Him. His past was no easier to talk about than yours," Regina said. Gail stiffened on the spot. It was the closest they'd ever came to mentioning it. "I don't know what they're doing here or why, but it doesn't seem so bad. Just try to let go, if you can. Finding somebody to blame won't solve anything."

Hesitating again, Gail opened his mouth, exhaled softly, and nodded. He wouldn't argue with her, not on this. The comfortable silence resumed. He still couldn't relax.

It was a quiet afternoon. They didn't speak much, both uncertain without the comfortable familiarity of hierarchy. A week and he'd yet to adjust to skies free of smoke; the absence of gunfire and explosions, even the familiar sounds of a passing convoy. Armed patrols were rare; they had few enough soldiers to spare, most having fallen back to the border with the western district.

Regina adjusted to the change in lifestyle without complaint. She often seemed content to sit outside and read or speak to their various visitors. The weariness he saw in her eyes never faded, and often she would stare into the distance for long periods of time without moving, even after the sun set. She would be awake long into the night, and had taken to sleeping until after midday.

Whether in the military or not, Gail had always felt an unappeasable urge to keep moving. The direction, he'd come to realise, was of lesser importance than simply having something to move towards. An hour passed and he found himself standing atop a raised hill on the outskirts of the city. He wiped the sweat from his brow. The warmth of the southern sun still came as a surprise. Turning aside, he looked out on the view.

To the far west he could see the coast, if only faintly. North and east were defined by farmland, though much in the north had been crushed and burnt. The southern command centre lacked the intimidating height and enormous outer walls of its western counterpart. More administrative than military, it could be seen without difficulty from his position. Once white walls had long since faded to a dull grey, though the Alvernian flag was notably absent.

He was tired of waiting. Regina had seen what he hadn't, and much sooner. She continually overcame the worst adversity, and always had, but for what reward? More was taken each day, and so many endured it without knowing why when all they had done was flee from the inevitable. He was no leader. That much had been proven under Hereson.

Another hour passed and he returned to the house. He wanted to tell Regina something, though he didn't know what, and the thought was forced from his mind when he saw Dylan's car again with another across the street. Personal transport was a luxury in Alvernia, and so its public transit systems were well-developed. No trains were headed for Merestan now.

"Back already? Find anything interesting?" Regina called out as he approached. She sat outside as usual at a table with Dylan. Gail's eyes darted from side to side, examining everything. Dylan's jaw was set, muscles tense and stiff; that caught his attention immediately.

"No. Something wrong?"

She shook her head, gesturing at a cup of coffee with an inquisitive look. The thought of eating or drinking brought with it a wave of nausea. With a raised hand he swiftly declined her offer.

"There is something," Dylan said, unusually hesitant. "In the house. Someone has a message for you, and only you. He wouldn't tell us anything."

"You never introduce me to any of your friends," Regina said, her light tone contrasted by the sudden seriousness of her expression. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and she looked away after a significant pause.

Gail left without another glance back, pushing a chair aside in his haste. It had been too long. Slipping through the open door he found a man reading through a crumpled pile of documents in the living room. Notable for his unassuming height, greying hair, and poorly fitted but vaguely official clothes, the man looked over his shoulder with a bored smile as Gail entered.

"So you did come back," he said, turning back with his hand outstretched.

Despite his reservations Gail shook it. Making enemies was a poor habit, one he'd grown tired of indulging. The sting of disappointment felt no less bitter. "I wasn't expecting you. Why are you here?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "You don't remember me? I suppose that's only to be expected. I made it to major, but that doesn't mean much now. Delivering messages in person, who'd have thought?"

Gail recalled him from Royce's office, an officer stationed in the west, one of those who'd joined the first wave sent to Ibis Island. "Levin, wasn't it? Michael Levin?"

"Mikhail Levin," he said, correcting Gail with a slight shrug. "Nobody remembers the men behind the scenes. Isn't that right, Gail?" Levin trailed off invitingly, lowering his documents.

"I prefer it that way. Why are you here?"

Levin sighed, resting a hand on the dining table. "Some things never change. I thought your manners might have improved after a few months at the top. Some might have had you locked away for that, you know, but not us."

"Why are you here?"

"To officially extend our courtesies to the newest members of our growing community. No, not really." He laughed, evidently expecting Gail to do the same, and adopted a look of feigned disappointment.

An increasingly uncomfortable silence quickly grew, as did Levin's exasperation. "Unfortunately or not, as you prefer, I'm Anton's new assistant. I'm a military man, and the politics gives me a headache. They don't tell you, but it's all politics."

"Fascinating. Why are you here?"

"I've had better conversations with my reflection," Levin said, not concealing his frustration. "I'll get to it, shall I?"

"You should have done that the moment you saw me."

"I forgot who I was meeting. Excuse me." Levin slapped his documents down on the table and cleared his throat in an uncomfortably grandiose manner.

"Your request for an audience with former colonel Anton Royce has unfortunately been declined. He wishes me to inform you that all future requests are also likely to be declined, that it would be a better use of your time to not bother at all, but to rest and recover in peace. He wishes you, a dear old friend, all the best, and tells you that all your requests, except those for an audience, will be met as best we can," he recited, infusing each word with flamboyant emotion.

"You didn't give a reason. Why won't he see me?"

Levin almost took a step back, overcome with surprise. "Oh, I didn't, did I? Well, I'm sure there's a reason, just let me see." He seized the documents and flipped through them twice before reading an entire page in the centre of the stack.

"Well?"

Levin ran a finger over a line on the centre of the page, nodding, and set the stack down. "He is, ah, _busy._"

Gail stared blankly at Levin, who suddenly looked the perfect image of a self-serious bureaucrat. "Busy?" he asked, and Levin smiled.

"Busy," he said, nodding again with gravity. A brief and uncomfortable silence overtook them, and his smile widened. "Well, I'm late for an appointment. I suppose we'll meet again. Eventually. Goodbye."

He vanished through the front door with surprising speed, and in the few seconds Gail spent standing there speechless he heard Levin's car sputter to a start.

Free from the arduous realities of conversation Gail leapt into action and ran after him. Mikhail Levin waved out the window as he pulled into the street, leaving Gail to scowl and run back only to find Dylan and Regina laughing at some joke, having replaced the coffee with a bottle of dull liquor.

"Where are...?" Gail began to ask, trailing off when he saw the object of his search and seized the keys from the table. "I'll be back. Stay here. This won't take long."

Dylan stood up in an alarmed rush but Regina, reliable as ever, held him back as Gail took off down the street after Levin. Driving was an unfamiliar task, and it took him a moment to adjust. For a moment he was almost overcome with the urge to accelerate and force Levin off the road.

He kept to a distance, aided by the lack of traffic and the government car's tinted windows. It was entirely possible that Levin simply was late for an appointment. He didn't believe it for half a second.

To his surprise they diverted, heading south-west and away from southern command. Paved roads turned to cobble, then gravel, and back to paved. They passed no checkpoints, few armed guards. Even Levin's driving had flamboyancy to it, as if he wanted everyone he passed to recognise his presence.

He followed, taking every precaution, until Levin's car pulled into a fenced off lot adjacent to a small commercial building, one of many built in a solitary spot by the shore of the sea. There were two armed guards here, though both were disguised as office workers. Both were bored beyond belief, Gail saw, and unfocused.

What was there to lose? Even if Levin wasn't meeting Anton it would be remarkably simple to extract the location from him. It always was. He pulled aside and parked the stolen car on the side of the road. Hesitating, holding back to preserve nothing of worth, had grown more tiring than facing any unknown danger.

He slammed the door closed and approached the open gate. Levin slipped inside a side door without looking back, a careless move, and Gail brushed one hand against his hip. No holstered pistol, no knives; they were unnecessary.

He pulled the iron gate shut behind him and both men jumped up, alarmed, and ran across. One was overweight, heavily perspiring, the other a dour looking man cautiously reaching into his suit jacket.

"You got business here? Private property," the first man said, but his companion sighed.

"Not private. Completely wrong connotations, you idiot," the second snapped, already irritable, but he looked just as insistent as the first. "Look, even if you do, this place shut down a while back. The owners left town, headed east in a real hurry. Sorry."

He sounded casual, even apologetic, if his tone was to be believed. It wasn't. Stunted, cautious, and stiff. They were terrible liars, and worse guardsmen.

"Is that so? I came here to find someone. I hope you can tell me where he is."

"I told you the place is shut," the second man argued. His frown grew, and he glanced at his companion. "What's your name? I'll ask around, see what the records say."

His name wouldn't appear on any record, of that Gail was sure. The fat one's hand slipped into his pocket. Calling for help, or reaching for a weapon? It was too late for either.

"Names are for friends. I don't need one."

"Then you can leave," the other guard said, drawing his pistol.

The slightest opportunity was all Gail needed. Seizing the guard's arm, he bent it back in a single motion, throwing the pistol aside. The resulting scream rang out through the tranquil neighbourhood, but there was no time for thought. He threw the injured guard to the floor and lunged at the other, wrapping a hand around his throat.

"Let's renegotiate. What are you protecting?" Gail spoke calmly, revelling in the rush of adrenaline and the immediacy of his goal. He felt the tiredness lift from his muscles, held the man there effortlessly.

Struggling for a futile moment, gasping and gurgling, the guard fell back, defeated and suddenly limp. "You've got about five minutes to get out of here before it's too late, friend. Go home."

A soft scraping from behind came as an unwanted distraction. Stepping back and pulling the guard with him, Gail crushed the other man's outstretched hand with his boot before he could reach the discarded pistol.

Gail watched, listened, as the guard screamed and scrambled back pathetically clutching his mangled fingers. His grip around the other man's throat tightened, muscles beginning to ache again, shoulder suddenly searing.

"What are you protecting?" he repeated, turning them around to keep the other man in view.

The guard's face was red, eyes bulging. He wouldn't answer. He remained defiant, and Gail hated him for it. Not once in his life had anything worked, each action plagued by doubt and struggle. The guard shook in his hands. One shoe lashed out, striking Gail's knee so feebly he barely felt the impact.

The guard still didn't answer. Could he speak? His face had turned crimson, eyes unfocused. Gail slammed a fist into his stomach and threw him down, breathing heavily. Only the whimpering of the suited guard behind was left to break the silence.

"And you said my methods were poor," a soft voice called from the other end of the lot.

Gail turned aside, leaning down and retrieving the pistol. "They were. Poor methods, and worse results."

Two men had appeared at the office's main door. A sign indicating it was, or had been, an accounting firm had been thrown aside. One leaned against the doorway, looking out on the brutal scene before them with bemusement. Gail's anger remained under the surface, waiting for the slightest excuse to return in full.

The other stood forward, a hand in the pocket of an ill-fitting coat. His unshaven face might as well have been carved from stone, but the emotion in his words was unmistakable. They watched each other, silent and unflinching.

"Looking at you now I think I understand how they see me. We've come a long way, haven't we? Not so far at all, I think."

Gail took a furtive step forward. He hadn't the words to respond, had no interest in debating or discussing. Why had this felt was necessary? He couldn't begin to say.

Anton Royce watched, unmoving, accompanied only by the figure waiting in the shadows of the doorway. There were no guards, no uniformed officials. Neither man was armed. It was as perfect a scenario as he could ever have devised.

"Do you intend to shoot me, Gail?" Anton asked, seemingly undisturbed.

He realised the pistol was at his side. It was a weight he'd grown to accept. To beat a man to the brink of death, order a massacre, send a friend to die. One slight movement, the briefest pressure on a thin piece of metal. It was routine.

It remained at his side. "No," Gail said, continuing his approach. The certainty he'd expected to feel remained as elusive as ever. He was tired of looking for it.

Anton's stony features shifted into a faint smile. "In that case we'd better get those men some help. Mikhail, would you be so kind?" He looked over his shoulder and the man leaning on the doorway straightened himself with a shrug.

"If you say so. Poor bastard's fingers are bent in ways I didn't want to believe were possible," Mikhail Levin said, mumbling under his breath as he fumbled in one pocket. Nonetheless he approached them both, calling for assistance as he examined their wounds.

Anton said nothing, looking between them both and the injured men and rubbing his eyes with one hand. His previously immaculate appearance had declined significantly. Once dark hair quickly greying, stubble on his chin, and dark circles under his eyes marred an otherwise attractive face. His clothes were loose, reflecting a marked loss in weight, and his posture was slack, well below military standards.

"You look terrible," Gail pointed out, expecting a barrage of excuses.

"I do, don't I? You were expecting more. I'd appear with a legion of followers, faceless sycophants on every side, looking down on you from above. Then you could hate me in peace," Anton said, still as calm as he'd ever seen the man.

True as that was, he tried to push it aside. "Even so, you're an Alvernian colonel. There are standards to be met."

A burst of laughter erupted as his immediate response and Anton took a moment to compose himself. "All this, and to think the one institution I couldn't escape was the officers' dress code. I'm no colonel anymore, and don't intend to be one again."

"General, then? Supreme leader? You never did think much of titles, so what is it?"

"Supreme leader, really? And they said you didn't understand humour. No, I don't know what I am now. They ask my advice on everything imaginable, and I offer it freely. I'm no military man, and never had much skill in that department in any case. It's better this way."

"Didn't you tell me just this morning to keep our divisions in the north?" Levin asked, stepping into the sunlight as he returned, still looking over his shoulder at the guards.

"I'll tell you again now. It's the only place for them. Find out what the Borginians are doing, would you? Convince them that there's hope," Anton said, clapping a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Even two more shipments would be invaluable,"

"And leave you alone with him?"

"There's nobody else I'd prefer to be left alone with," Anton replied, retrieving a note from his jacket pocket and handing it to the other man.

Levin raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing. His cheerful smile was quickly becoming irritating.

Without argument he left to do exactly that, waiting with the guards until the medical team arrived. Gail considered it for a moment, but he felt no regret. They proceeded into the lobby, a sunny and spacious room that smelled faintly of lavender and worn leather. Uncertainty fell upon him again as the sense of urgency faded, but Anton took a moment to breathe in the warm air and seemed to take some satisfaction from it.

"It's pleasant, isn't it?" Anton asked, as if there were nothing unusual about their situation at all.

"I expected you'd be in southern command. You can't hide. Not anymore."

"Who's hiding? You really mustn't be so confrontational. This office is abandoned, and I needed a break."

Gail held back an immediate retort. It was rarely so simple: that much he'd learned. "How can you run a campaign from an accounting office on the edge of an agricultural city?"

Anton laughed, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "This is why I missed you. So determined. What campaign? My dear friend, you are aware that we _lost_?"

This time there was no holding back. "You escaped with barely any losses. You don't have the stomach for this, never have. Why did you even bother?"

"What did you expect?" Anton snapped, turning around in a disquieting display of ire. "I was given my orders. Retreat south and we don't get burned off the map. Any further hostilities and all these people, however many think I wake up knowing exactly what to do to save them, are finished. Do you know what that means? Have you ever had to think about anyone other than yourself?

He exhaled softly, looked aside, and then back. "You didn't deserve that. I apologise."

"You can't expect to abandon responsibility now that you've faced a setback. Hiding here won't work. Not for long."

"I don't know what I expect, if you want the truth. It seemed a bit of an adventure to me. Everyone I cared about was with me, everyone I hated against me. A righteous cause. It hurt, you know, when I realised we had to part ways. More than I expected. It's uncomfortable to say even now."

Gail leaned back against the reception desk, slightly wary. "I didn't like it either. Every agent I trained, people I knew for years. They'd be alive if not for you."

"Would they? The life you lived hardly seemed like living to me. Years on the brink of death, fighting for nothing of worth, the ugliness of their work soothed by the occasional lie. That was your method, I remember. Well, poor Rick seemed to like the life I offered him, and if your lovely friend is right he may not even be dead."

"_If_ Regina is right. That doesn't change the rest."

Anton looked taken aback. "You don't believe her? I entertained the idea. Kirk made my life difficult for years, but I did think he'd respond to her. A pretty face, and someone who might sympathise with his alienation. Dmitri insisted she was both."

"You had him investigate her without telling me?"

"Dmitri investigated everyone, even you, probably me. What do you think an assistant does? Make my coffee? You came back from your missions soaked in blood. For us in the office it took some more imagination, but our hands were no less stained," Anton said, a hint of the verbose officer Gail had known beginning to return.

"It's no surprise," Gail said, his scorn undisguised.

Again, Royce looked surprised, even taking half a step back. "It's not? That's not like you at all."

"Your own judgment is clearly unreliable. Of course you'd delegate it to the same man who'd abandon you so soon after. Your assistant and your second-in-command are to blame for this mess. One mistake after another."

"No more, please," Anton said, wincing in mock dismay. "Do you want to know an ugly secret? After that disaster at the foundry, when James told me I'd be leaving the city, I had a choice to make. Were they alive? A week had passed. Kirk, Dmitri, and your Regina had vanished. An unimaginable loss, but then she appeared on the final day in public. You met her, I know."

"You know too much, but you never make a move yourself, Anton. Someone else always has to pull the trigger."

"It's dangerous to talk about that, even here," Anton said, quite softly. He waved the issue aside, almost pleading it be dropped. "In any case, I left them there. If Kirk was dead, well, I didn't care. If he was with your friend all for the better, and with Dmitri there to supervise. If Eliza hadn't lost control of her pet I suspect this would be a very different conversation. I took that risk. Whether the alternative was any better, we'll never know."

Gail didn't bother concealing his distaste. "You speak like you're playing with puppets. I remember when that was beneath you."

"I remember when the same filth was beneath you, but here we are," Anton Royce remarked, as dry a statement as he'd ever uttered. "Let's forget the past for a while, shall we? I'd like to see the view from the rooftop before the day turns ugly. Would you join me?"

Gail's immediate instinct was to turn around and walk out. It might have been satisfying, at least for an hour. Instead the hour passed and they were leaning on the rooftop's ledge. The surrounding streets were quiet. A car passed occasionally, usually headed for the city's centre. The two guards had been taken away and replaced, Gail noticed, but neither of them mentioned it.

The conversation was slow at first. Gail found himself at a loss for words more than once. The uncertainty, even nervousness, he began to hear in Anton's words left its mark. They were too similar, and he preferred not to think of the implications.

"You shouldn't be standing here," Gail commented after a particularly long pause. "One sniper, that's all it'd take."

Anton grimaced, looking intently at him. His pale blue eyes were sunken and watery in the sunlight. "Well, here's their chance." He spread his hands out to each side, leaned further out. "You see? No risk at all. They want me alive. You should know: if they were looking they'd check here."

He leaned even further out, so much so that Gail had to resist the urge to pull him back. Seemingly satisfied, he stepped away from the balcony and looked expectantly back at Gail.

"Am I supposed to ask you why?"

"No, I thought you'd remember," Anton said, more energetic by the minute. "Our fault for taking the sign down, I suppose. My father was one of this firm's founders, and this was his branch. He paid for my education, and look how I used it." He laughed, leaning back on the ledge, and looked up at the cloudless sky. "You don't remember, do you? That's alright." He sounded downright dejected, almost wistful.

"I met him once," Gail said, suddenly quite uncomfortable. "And we went to his funeral. Five years ago."

A grim smile, but still a smile. "Three years ago. Don't worry. I wasn't sure either before today."

"Does it matter?" Gail said, watching his reaction carefully.

Anton hesitated, thinking, and shook his head. "No, not really. He's not going to care, is he?"

"Do you?"

More hesitation. "Not as much as I should. I remember when they asked me who we ought to invite. Business associates, none I knew. No family, few friends. You volunteered to go to put me out of my misery. I never forgot that."

The memory returned with effort, murky and unclear. A quiet ceremony in an affluent area, few guests, several well known in the financial world. A military guard, dressed appropriately, for the visiting officers who'd been given a day's leave. Regina had asked, he remembered, what he'd done to get a day off. He'd lied, of course, and told her it was nothing worth mentioning. Three of them had stood to one side, separate and away from the chatting businessmen.

"She was there too, wasn't she?" Gail asked, looking back over the edge to avoid the other man's heavy stare.

"Yes. It was shortly after the northern campaign came to an end. It seemed odd to me. We barely knew each other, but I didn't refuse. Eliza did, after all, as good as abandon her career to join my office."

"I didn't understand why you said that even at the time."

"Nobody turns down an offer to join the command staff to work with a suspected dissident, Gail. Certainly not when you attract a general's attention, as I'm sure you learned. They only even considered her over in Central after that brutality in the north. The most gifted strategist they'd ever seen." He paused, smiling, and held up a single finger. "Brilliant, intimidating, but a woman nonetheless. Most of them died last week," Anton continued, taking a short pause to think. "All of them, possibly. Well, it was necessary, I don't deny that."

"Was she planning," Gail started, pausing, and failing, to look for the words, "_it_ for that long?"

Letting out a long breath, Anton slumped down against the ledge, resting his head on the stone. "That's the question, isn't it? I don't know. She insisted that it be an armed revolution. Any mention of reform brought a sneer to her face in a second. She was a strategic prodigy, I thought, so that might have been it. We all have our strengths." But he shook his head, exhaling softly. "No, she was right. I think I always knew. I just didn't want to believe..." he said, trailing off in an inaudible murmur.

He looked up at Gail, one hand on his knee. "You've been kinder than I expected. Aren't we enemies, to your mind?"

The satisfying answer, the one that had an unmistakable feeling of righteousness, was undeniably in the affirmative. Gail hesitated, and made no attempt to hide the reality. He didn't know what he thought, and certainly not what he felt.

"Forget the past. That's what you said, so forget it. We've all made mistakes, and I'm tired of remembering them."

The gratitude he saw on Anton's shabby features would never be forgotten. It was a response he'd never seen before. He reconsidered. Regina had looked the same way, even half-dead, when he'd found her the night of their failure in Merestan.

"You have to be one of the most astounding men I've ever met. I should have told you years before," Anton said, standing up with effort. His posture straightened, pale eyes meeting Gail's without hesitation. "I'd say more, but the words don't seem to be there. I still talk too much, certainly. It's my only talent." He shrugged, feigning helplessness.

It was becoming increasingly obvious to Gail, though these things always took time with him, that it was no easier for Anton Royce than it was for him. No easier for anyone, more likely than not.

True to their agreement, neither made the slightest judgment about the others' prior decisions from then on, at least verbally. Gail indulged Anton's desire for small talk for some time. He could see the signs. Stress and helplessness. He felt trapped and was looking for an escape, however small.

From the rooftop Gail could see the fleet waiting in the western sea, and Anton's eyes darted over to it periodically, as if he expected it to vanish at any moment. It wasn't so uncomfortable. He didn't want to admit it, not even to himself. A man who'd always—for reasons Gail found hard to say—greatly appreciated his companionship. One small reprieve from a life of isolation.

Before long the question had to be asked. "What you said earlier was a joke, wasn't it? A TRAT lieutenant, a former major with a respectable career as your assistant: you are still their leader."

But Anton waved his declaration off. "I'm no longer planning strategy," he said, as vague an answer as Gail had ever heard. He let his disapproval be known through a sustained and disdainful frown. An expression that inspired an alarming tirade.

"You expect me to lead a military? _Me_? The woman I had doing exactly that is the only reason this ploy worked as long as it did. Now she's convinced half the army to do _something_ up there, who knows what," Anton said in a great rush of words. "You want the truth? I hate it. I really do. Who am I to send thousands to die? Because they did die. When that northern division came down from the mountains how many died for my incompetence?"

Breathing heavily and suddenly unable to meet Gail's eyes, Royce turned away and ran a hand through his hair. "One agricultural region, a small city. We'll be left here, powerless, as she punishes me for whatever I've done wrong. You can be sure, so long as we continue as expected we'll be left here. Or I will. You may be at risk, to tell the truth."

Gail expected elaboration on that sour note, but was given none. "You are going to fight them?" he asked, taking care not to sound accusatory.

"How?" Anton asked. It came out as a strained whisper, almost pained.

Gail held in a long breath, waited, but the tension only grew. "You have resources they don't. A fleet, where they have none. Foreign allies. General Hereson said more than once you could take the west, even if you couldn't keep it."

"They want me to do it, don't you see that? We'd break each other down until there was nothing left. I would fall into some trap or other, you can be sure of that. If not for the Third Energy there might have been a chance. Whoever utilised it first would be invincible, Kirk once told me, even before it was much more than an energy generator."

"You took Ibis Island. Use it against them," Gail pointed out, but Anton flinched to hear the name.

"We lost contact two days ago. The entire garrison dead, or as good as dead. Biological weapons are terrible, truly, and Borginia developed them out of fear of us. I told you. Eliza is better at this than I am, and her advisors are better than mine. Mikhail does what he can, and there are plenty more, but they're outmatched. I should know."

Gail closed the distance between in a single step, grasped the other man's shoulder. "What happens when nobody resists? You know as well as I do."

Anton looked aside, unsure, but Gail held him still. It couldn't be left this way: of that he was certain.

"They'll never use the Third Energy without provocation. I know them," the revolutionary leader murmured, still averting his gaze.

"No, they won't. They'll come down from the northern plains. This city," Gail said, his emotion unconcealed, pointing harshly at the pristine city, its terraced houses, nearby forests, quiet streets. "This city will burn until there's nothing left. They'll starve you out. They'll torture you, they'll cut down the people you think you're protecting, burn your crops, hunt down everyone you ever cared for, and every second they'll blame you for its necessity."

"Such a miserable scene you paint for me, Gail," Anton Royce said, still murmuring. He looked up, searching the other man's face. "You're not wrong. Clean, undiscriminating, efficient: the Third Energy is too sterile. Thousands armed with rifles and a sense of purpose. That's how she'll do it. That's how we did it, isn't it?"

"Time to admit it. If you wait, you die."

But Anton's uncertain look vanished, and he stepped back. "It feels like I've been here before." He was still murmuring, almost with a look of revulsion. "Yes, I think I was a lieutenant. Twenty years old. I told myself, no I told _you,_ that one day we'd have a choice. That we wouldn't to tolerate it anymore. But now I'm here and there is no choice. It's all predetermined, as if I were only a spectator."

His eyes unfocused, staring at something that couldn't be seen. Gail had seen this before, in himself and others, and supressed his own fears. Stepping forward, he grasped Royce by both shoulders and shook him back to reality.

"That's an excuse. How are you going to prevent it from happening again?"

"Me? I told you. I would wait," Anton Royce said, almost laughing again. He looked on the edge of despair. "I tried internal subversion and it failed. I tried threatening them for reform and half my officers called me a coward and a traitor. I tried negotiating again, I tried invading, and was forced back under threat of annihilation."

Resting his head against the door leading down to the offices, Royce smiled faintly. "You're right. It's a bad plan, but it's all I've got left."

Gail waited, trying to find the words, to think of an alternative. They watched each other for a long, silent minute, a look of desperation in the former colonel's eyes, searching for a hint of hope.

"It's not even a plan. It's suicide, but you won't admit it" Gail finally said, as pensive as he'd ever been. "It might be three months. It might be twelve. Every division she's enlisted will march south. You know what that means. You'll resist, and you'll fail, and if you ever did drive them back it wouldn't be long before the entire region disappeared in a single night."

For a brief moment it seemed too much, but Gail stepped forward again, forcing Anton to look at him. "In less than a year from that day you'll be crawling through the street. You'll beg for death before—"

"No more. I don't need to hear it," Anton said, almost crying out. "No wonder I told Mikhail to keep you away." He seemed genuinely shaken, and wasn't attempting to hide it.

"I didn't say it out of spite," Gail said, as softly as he could. "There was always one difference between us. Every time I left, I knew there was a chance I wasn't coming back. I was already dead. Start thinking that way for long enough and it becomes a habit, one you need to learn. Don't you see it? Fight or not, everything you have is already gone."

He watched, said no more. Anton's pale hands gripped the railing as he looked over the edge again. "This is why they fought us, isn't it?" he said, voice hoarse, left arm shaking under his weight.

"Who?" Gail said. His legs stiffened, slowed to a stop. He was a terrible liar.

"Don't lie to me, Gail, I couldn't take it from you too. Eliza was right, she was always right." Anton said, inexplicably beginning to laugh. "We're despicable. Mass murderers, war criminals; the most loathsome men you'll ever find. Why not admit it? I tried to _save_ her, can you believe it?"

He laughed again, but it was the least comforting sound Gail had ever heard. "I tried to save _her_. They returned from the north bathed in gore, and I pretended I was any better. And I did it again, daring to offer peace terms when I should have attacked. I've spent sixteen years recreating myself, and it was all an exercise in deceit, a collection of lies to keep me from shooting Hereson in the head and then myself to follow."

Gail moved to intervene, to pull him back, shake him to his senses, but he continued. "Borginia was real, Gail, and nothing else. Is it any surprise we're so connected? I saw you on those streets. The orders came in, and we checked the corpses, do you remember? Is this one alive? No, on to the next. Oh, she is, a bullet to the brain for her," Anton said, still holding back laughter. He stumbled back, away from the edge. "And again, and again, and I pointed and you pulled the trigger. No need for words then, not between friends."

"We didn't have a choice," Gail said. His own hand was shaking. He saw the stolen pistol, tucked unthinkingly at his side. A wave of revulsion overcame him.

"We didn't have a choice," Anton said in a mocking imitation of his words. "We don't have a choice now either. All that suffering, didn't it make you feel alive? We all came back with a sense of purpose, so sure we'd stop it from happening again."

"And we will. It's not too late."

"But you know what I can't forget? They never stopped fighting. Not until the treaties were signed, and even then. Remember that one town, grim place that it was? Eight weeks in, or eight months, I don't know. That woman jumped out on the road one night, so humid it was, waving her arms and screaming," Anton said, finding a new reserve of energy, speaking almost conspiratorially.

"I don't want to hear it," Gail said, his jaw clenched, head turned.

"And she screamed and cried, bloodied clothes torn apart, that caved-in face staring right through us. I thought, does she want to die? Why isn't she hiding? I hesitated, and she danced around so much I couldn't help but laugh," Anton continued, grinding down Gail's reserves with each word. "Well, I thought, of course she wants to die. Who wouldn't in her place?"

He'd heard too much. "I shot her," Gail said, almost inaudibly.

"And so you did," Anton replied with a limp shrug. "And then we saw it. Running off down the street, darting into the jungle: a girl, perhaps ten, barely clothed, but already out of range. Why would she do that, Gail? Her poor daughter all but certainly came to a gruesome end, but they fought right to the finish."

"What choice did they have? One died so the other could live."

"Even if only for another hour? Risking torture and rape and who knows what else?"

"What choice did they have?" Gail repeated, this time firmly.

Anton's long tirade came to an end. He stared back at Gail, almost glaring, opened his mouth to argue. No words emerged, only a long, defeated breath, his posture slumped down once more.

"We have to be better than that," Gail urged, realising he spoke as if they together in this, too tired to correct himself. "Don't you see anything, even now, that's worth fighting for?"

"I don't see anything now," Anton Royce murmured, looking at one pale hand in the sun. "Only the legions of faceless men, the burning fields, the smell of decaying flesh. Everywhere I go it follows, and I see it in your eyes too, hide it though you do."

Gail could feel the sweat on his brow, the rigid way his muscles lay still, even the dull ache in his shoulder. The urge to fight had always been the strongest sensation he knew, the one feeling he'd never supressed.

"Eliza used to tell me something," Anton said, still murmuring, eyes unfocused once more. "Should I go to work today, or should I kill myself? Anyone who'd never asked, she said, wasn't worth our time." He looked back at Gail, uncertainty replaced by resignation. "She never intended a return to stability. I see that now."

"Even if it means the fighting continues until there's nothing left?" Gail asked. He already knew the answer.

"Especially so. Others feel that way, though who would admit it? Dmitri used to tell me: the revolution would be as violent as it had to be, and only then would it cease. He's fooling himself. It will never end, not until they break themselves in the process."

"Why?" Gail asked. "Do they want to die? That's where they're going, whether they kill us or not."

Anton's only response for a long moment was a grim smile. "The dancing woman, cursed with an absurd desire to die. Only after we killed her did we see the truth. Some pains cannot be seen, Gail. Some wounds never heal, no matter how well they're hidden. Who are we to judge their pain?"

"I don't care," Gail said, and Anton looked up in surprise. "I'll judge their actions. Mass executions, instigating wars, destroying an entire city in a single night. I can see what I have to fight. There's nothing abstract about it. Eliza Anders dies, her supporters die, her ideology dies."

"But you're thinking on too immediate a scale," Anton objected, turning around to face the northern view once more. "We tear them down and the same institutions rise again. The military, the endless quest for profit, the state that held it all together. This isn't so dissimilar. These people will always exist."

"Then what's this?" Gail asked, pointing at the quiet streets below. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? Don't you think it's worth saving?"

Anton hesitated, looking between Gail and the peak of southern command in the distance. "There's no telling whether it'll work or not. We've changed so many things, you see, and there are no guidelines to follow."

"Don't avoid the question. Do you think it's worth saving?"

More hesitation. "I suppose I do. They all trust me, but I'm a fraud. There is no grand plan."

"There never is," Gail said. "I don't think there should be. It's a delusion, and a dangerous one. I lied to my team for years, tried to keep them safe. Away from you, and me."

"They knew you were lying," Anton said, softly. "They still respect you, I know. Even now. She thinks no less of you, does she? It's a precious thing, recognition. Don't ever take it for granted."

Gail couldn't be sure. Regina held no grudge, no animosity that he could see. It was deserved, but she refused to think of it. Sitting in the sun with a friend, looking out on the distance. There was weariness, and pain, but no hatred in her eyes.

"Regina didn't make my mistakes. I won't lie. Being surpassed is nothing to be ashamed of, not for men like us, but it hasn't made much difference. She's caught their attention now."

"Hardly seems fair, does it?"

Gail shook his head. "No, it doesn't. She nearly died making it back to that port. Now I have to tell her it's only a reprieve. She bought herself a few more months, nothing more."

"And you want to prevent this particular injustice?"

"What did you expect? That I'd sit back and wait for somebody else to do it for me?"

"No," Anton said, quiet again. "I suppose not." He hesitated, almost unwilling to continue. "You've seen what they're prepared to do, and we both know: once you've taken that path there's no coming back. They'll be waiting for us."

"I'm counting on it."

An unsure smile, but a peculiarly reassuring one. "I know you are," Anton said. He glanced out at the sea. A tinge of orange had crept into the skyline as they spoke. "Can you see it too, Gail? We've been here before. Such a beautiful place, and it burned while we watched. You were always there." He was murmuring again, completely motionless. "I don't quite remember what I'm fighting for. Isn't that strange?"

"This isn't Borginia. There will never be reason to make that comparison again, not while we're alive. Do you understand?"

He said nothing for a long, painful moment. Gail's anger had faded away, its causes forgotten. A slow nod, an indistinct smile: more was conveyed through those gestures than any words. They sat outside on the rooftop, all but silent, as the impending sunset approached.

The one constant in Gail's life soon returned. He had to keep moving. Looking aside, back at the sky, he moved to stand up, only a weight pulled at his right arm and he glanced down in surprise.

Anton Royce stared back, a faint smile on his tired face. One pale hand, unexpectedly gentle, grasped Gail's arm. "Would you stay with me? It needn't be for long."

Nothing else needed to be said. Settling back against the stone ledge, Gail waited, initially uncertain. He saw the relief in Anton's eyes, didn't look away. The burning need for movement was forgotten, if only for one night, and they remained there until well after sunset.


	30. Chapter 30

Unsurpassed in both size and prominence, the great hall jutting from the bastion's inner northern wall put the surrounding citadel to shame in its grandiosity. As was only natural it was reserved for the sole use of the highest ranking officers and their guests. That wasn't as true as it had once been. Each of those officers had been gathered in the same hall a week before. As the sun rose they were heard and put to death in a quiet affair observed only by their three silent judges.

High ceilings and carved pillars only added to its beauty, and to the sense of misplaced opulence. Priceless works of art lined the walls, placed conservatively and with great care, but always just within sight. A viewing balcony lined the walls, accessible only from the highest floor. Another had been built on the rooftop, accessible only by elevator or a certain obscure stairway. Each of its entrances were barred and guarded.

The hall was never again to be used for official purposes. That consensus had been reached without debate. A lone man entered from its main doors, forcing them shut again, and proceeded without ceremony. Neither the grandeur nor the occasion appealed to him in the slightest, and he made no attempt to hide his contempt for both.

Three curved windows at the rear were its centrepiece. Painted pale orange by the dying sun, only the distant end was well lit. Its beauty was undeniable. Forcibly casting aside any sense of wonder, he focused on his purpose. There at the far end its lone occupant stood observing the distant sky from a raised platform, one hand resting on a carved stone banister.

He slowed to a halt, hesitant to interrupt. The slender figure showed none of the cold hostility, the distance, he'd so often come to expect. Her stance was relaxed, almost tranquil, and suddenly he found it easy to believe that she wasn't there at all; that he was standing alone in the vast hall.

The illusion was broken. She looked over her shoulder, unfazed, and beckoned him up. Neither of them spoke for some time, observing the panorama in silence. Tension and anger faded, his objections unimportant. Below the streets were filled with soldiers and armoured vehicles, the remnants of the established command vying for control underneath. An unwanted feeling of familiarity resurfaced.

"They're remarkably busy down below," Dmitri Mirzin said, keeping his tone light. "I suppose it was too optimistic to think we'd ever see the end of paperwork. What have we done?"

"What nobody else would," Eliza Anders answered, calm and assured. "Society's a wonderful machine, don't you think? Each part instilled with purpose, each perpetuating itself and the whole without ever asking why. We broke the machine."

"Did we? The pieces are already scrambling to put themselves back together again," Dmitri said. "I can see them staring at me. Give me a post in the civil service, their eyes say, or at least a promotion. Well, who can blame them?"

"It doesn't matter," Eliza said, still quiet. "They can't be expected to understand. Even so, not everything can be restored; that should be quite obvious now."

"Not as obvious as the vacant desks below. They'll be looking for a sky free of smoke, soldiers who aren't shooting at them, and someone to blame for this mess. Hand the factories and farms over to the masses if you want their support."

"They'll have it all. We freed them from the corrupt military leadership, ended the civil war, and put the industrialists to death. It'll be a comfortable transition, if uncertain, but hardly worse than what came before. They have the power, not us, but it's better that they don't know it."

"We have the right image, I think," Dmitri added, recalling his youth. "Give them a reason to believe it and they will. Nobody likes to think about this sort of thing if it can be avoided."

"I'd prefer not to be a public figure, but I suppose there's nothing to be done now," Eliza said, pausing for thought. "News travels slowly; we might want to find a figurehead, preferably a group of them. Well, it's not so important. There's no alternative now. Who would have guessed it was so easy to stage a coup?"

He saw no reason to respond. There were times when he could hear the tiredness in her voice, and this was one of them. It seemed a sort of sickness, he often thought, eating away at her from the inside. He'd thought himself different, but as they grew closer he could feel it within himself. They weren't so different.

"Is there a point you're trying to prove by letting Harper live? He's done all we can expect."

A hint of hesitation. "There was once," Eliza said, looking away. "Now I can't be sure. What was I trying to prove? There was a picture in my mind, but I think I've forgotten the details."

"You think?" Dmitri asked, not hiding his scepticism.

She hesitated again. "There may be another reason now. He's useful. I don't deny that, but neither do I deny his use to us is coming to an end."

"That day came and passed," Dmitri said, hearing the irritation in his voice, ignoring it. "He did what you expected. You should have had me shoot him that same night."

"And when did you become so eager to do the unpleasant work yourself?" Eliza retorted, a hint of energy returning. "You've adjusted too quickly, Dmitri. Hide it under that scowl if you like, but remember: there are other ways to solve this problem."

"You're sure this is a practical decision?"

"No, not really. If I change my mind I'll do it myself. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Dmitri watched her for a long moment. Not the slightest hint of emotion. He nodded his agreement, already tired of the argument.

"Good," Eliza said, meeting his eyes. "And when we're done with Anton you'll be the one to kill him. Does that sound fair? No, that's not right at all. Nothing more than professional there, though I saw him leering at you more than once."

"Do we need to make even this a game?"

Almost grinning now, Eliza took a step closer. "Don't you like games? You're no fun, Dmitri. No family, no friends, no lovers. You're such a good actor you've even convinced yourself you can feel anything other than contempt."

She paused, rubbing her chin with one hand in a mockery of thoughtfulness. "True as that may be, you hesitated to kill that woman. Executions are hard, I know, but it wasn't your first. There's our deal. I'll forget this Regina. Should she return, well, you know how it's done." She shrugged, tapping her throat.

It should have been an unpleasant prospect. Regina was likely dead already, though he didn't really believe it. Potentially disabled by her injuries, it was unlikely they'd ever meet again, and if they did? One life was never worth so much protest. Protest was a terrible strategy when dealing with Eliza in any case, he well knew.

"Fine. We'll do it your way."

"Everyone seems to say that, but you might be the first to mean it," Eliza said, this time genuinely thoughtful.

It was difficult to know whether she meant that or not. He'd seen the same smile when they met the senior officers. They were to be included in the takeover, she'd claimed. Each was executed on the spot mere moments after the relief had shown on their faces. Liebert, the only survivor, gave the order himself at her insistence.

She looked back through the windows, the sun shining off her long hair. Even her clothing, as utilitarian as ever, was well-fitted and peculiarly eye-catching. "This is the right moment, and the right place. Perfect, you might say."

"Perfection is irrelevant," he replied, feeling the sudden urge to argue again. She turned around, looking at him strangely. A hint of pride returned again, quickly dismissed. The days of subordination were finished for them both.

To his surprise she looked away, back at the windows. "It would be a terrible thing if you were right. He lived to make this happen," she murmured, pointing at the view. "It's done, and now the disappointment will be setting in. What will he do? There's only one answer."

Dmitri didn't bother replying. She didn't want to hear it, and he found he didn't care enough to bother. For some time he watched patiently, leaning against a marble column, while Eliza examined the hall in detail.

"You're hiding something," Eliza soon pointed out, looking over her shoulder. "This is your frustrated glare, not your natural one. For such a subtle change it's remarkably unattractive."

It was a terrible habit. Feigning a smile was his preferred habit, but not with her. They weren't ever to lie to each other, though it was frustrating to have his thoughts guessed so easily.

"There's something different about this," he admitted, cautiously glancing back at the doors. "How many people died to make it happen? Do you know? I don't. Too many to count. More died in one night than in the last two suppressions combined, and yet…" he trailed off, uncertain, and slumped down against the banister.

Eliza finished for him. "It doesn't feel real, does it? Flip a switch and they vanish forever. Anyone could do it."

"Did it make any difference?" Dmitri asked, still watching the door. He heard nothing for a long moment and held back a sigh.

"Some, Dmitri," she said, so softly he almost misheard her. "There was never an alternative."

He felt a wave of unease, tried to push it back. "It's barbaric. If Central had ever been given that technology they'd have been impossible to unseat. To think they'd have all sat back and watched it happen."

More silence. Dmitri's eyes unfocused, staring out at the future that could have been. A weight on his shoulder shook him out of the trance and Eliza stared back, firm and unyielding, but almost with empathy.

"It could still happen. Never forget that. I wonder what choice Edward made on that night. You're sure his corpse wasn't found?"

He shook his head, letting out a long breath. "None of them were found. Deserters and dissidents have been fleeing past the mountain ranges. It's likely he went with them."

"Headed straight north," Eliza finished. "They have nowhere else to go. I thought he might have stayed. A satisfying death, if he'd done it right."

"If he starts that project again all this will have been for nothing, you do realise? You were rather insistent on that point, I remember. If you'd told me he'd escaped we could have done something."

"It's obscene, isn't it? Killing should be painful for all involved. One of the most powerful sensations we can feel, and he stripped the life from it," Eliza said, undisguised contempt in her words. "The question is: does he blame himself or the man who pulled the lever?"

Dmitri considered another complaint, let out a long breath, and let it go uncontested. "We could destroy it," he murmured, looking at the western windows. "One use as a warning, to prove it exists, but nobody else knows why Central vanished."

"We could. Whether it still exists or not, it doesn't matter. They know who made it happen. They're terrified because they know we can do it again."

"Can we?"

She smiled. It was a cold expression, inviting only to him. "We could. Nobody understands it, nobody cares to understand it. It's a mundane reality, and a necessary lie, but people will remember the _spectacle_. Why struggle to rebuild society, old or new? They have no choice but to ask now."

"Futility is a dull question with obvious answers," Dmitri retorted, not bothering to hide his indifference. "We're here, they'll all tell you, and we intend to make it worthwhile while we are. Why bother arguing?"

"Can we make it worthwhile? That's the real question."

"I can point out a few moments since we met that have been pleasant, if you like," he remarked, allowing an indistinct smile to replace his more natural morose stare.

"And I'll admit to that," Eliza said, mirroring his expression. "A few moments, scattered and brief, but each second worth experiencing is suffocated by months of tedium on either side. Do they deny it? Society is built on shared illusion, so why should this be any different?"

"An existence worth experiencing," he said, musing over it, and not for the first time. "They might just pull the covers back over their collective heads, so to speak."

"People can believe whatever they want to believe," Eliza said, meeting his doubtful stare with the same detached smile.

Objections arose in the back of mind, feeble and lifeless things, starved of all attention. "Is this why you won't kill Harper even if he disappoints you? Tell me or don't, I see what you're going to do."

Eliza took a step back, grinning almost conspiratorially. "I never do anything for nothing, Dmitri. There's always a reason."

It was rare for her to be so straightforward. He decided he owed her the same respect. "You're right. There _is_ always a reason, and I trust you to know it. Both for yourself, and for me." She looked positively elated to hear it, he realised with surprise.

"Keep that in mind," he added. "But don't think I'll ever hesitate to abandon you as well if you prove yourself as disappointing as the rest."

He stared back at the doors, assuming she felt no need to answer. Honesty was as difficult as it was unpleasant. Much better to keep every option open, he'd once thought. There was little point now.

"That won't happen," he heard her say, quiet and solemn.

He said no more. As ever, Eliza Anders was right. She had the sense of purpose he didn't, the certainty hidden beneath abstract ideas and transient goals. The sun was low in the sky, warm on his skin, and he brushed a hand against the pistol at his hip. It was a comfort to have it there.

What had they done? It was a simple question. Manipulated a man into irreparably fracturing a nation, murdered every government or military official to survive, driven all their enemies into exile. These words repeated in his mind, again and again, all semblance of meaning gradually stripped with each repetition.

Years of stagnation and tedium disguised by grandiose thoughts of revolution and societal change. They focused on the plan, struggled, lied, and his chance finally came. The revolution began; their efforts to force it into existence were validated. Each success brought with it a moment of elation, precious and undeniable.

And each time, he'd soon felt the monotony return. Subtle at first, soon undeniable. The goal was within reach, and he didn't care. Luxury or poverty, whether he lived in a veritable palace or the most desolate room ever imagined, they weren't so different. The briefest moments, an hour, a day, would eclipse years on either side. Pain or pleasure, either would suffice to break the tedium. What was their goal? With each success they moved closer to its completion, and with each success he pushed aside the uncomfortable realisation that he couldn't quite remember what that goal was.

One moment shone through above all else. With the massacre came a rare moment of exhilaration, inexplicable but undeniable. An unavoidable fate averted, hundreds gunned down in the place they'd thought safest. One cut a woman's spinal cord; the other finished the execution. He'd hesitated then. Hand shuddering, partially from injury, more from uncertainty.

It hadn't been planned; nothing was said. Eliza felt the urge and followed. For him to have denied her that sense of fulfilment, of shared feeling, would be a worse crime than any murder, and yet it was wrong, undeniably wrong to kill. That was understood by even the youngest child. The instinctual pleading, the brutality, the smell of viscera: it was obscene and it was liberating. A grey veil clouding his vision had been pulled back in its wake.

Eliza felt it too, and she'd insisted on proving it when they returned to the grim apartment they'd used as a hideout. He'd never felt more alive. As the sun rose he'd looked over at her through the faint morning light. Pale, enthralling, vulnerable; seemingly no different than she'd been even an hour before. Her melancholia had already returned.

Leaning back against the headboard, he'd known the same was true for him. She didn't say it, not once, as she stared back up at him. It didn't need to be said. Curiosity, but also a peculiar sort of thankfulness, was what he'd seen in that disconsolate face.

He turned aside, leaned over the banister. Eliza descended the first few steps, hesitating to go any further. What would satisfy them, and could it ever be sustained? She would find the answers, he wanted to believe. Looking over her shoulder and back up at him, he saw the same disconsolate expression again.

A sudden knock, harsh and echoing, startled them both. Nothing was said, not a single word uttered or thought, and the two grand doors opened again with a heavy groan, as if they were attempting in vain to remain shut.

Two men stood outside. Dmitri's eyes were drawn to the man at the rear, a Borginian militiaman with a scowl on his harsh features. Their eyes met, a slight shake of the head, and his scowl shifted and became a knowing smirk. The other entered without hesitating, saw nothing, and was instantly engrossed in the shadows dominating the great hall's front end. The doors swung closed again without protest.

Their guest began his long walk, each step echoing off the high walls. Dmitri remained at the window, Eliza watching silently from the stair leading to the platform, both bathed in the sun's last light; both looking down as Harper approached.

Through the gloom they judged him from above. Clothes stained with filth, a gaunt face staring back without shame. He said nothing, remained resolute, but each step was heavier than the last until he slowed to a stop, hesitant to step into the pale orange light.

"This was the place, wasn't it?" Eliza said, watching him with a look of anticipation. "We never spoke of it, not once, but here you are. You knew it couldn't end anywhere else."

But Harper looked taken aback, almost dazed, and observed the cavernous walls, the opulence, even the grand windows, with a look of uncertainty.

"There is something familiar here," he murmured with another startled look at the surroundings. "Uniformed men laughing and joking over more food and wine than I'd ever seen, and I was one of them." He trailed off, almost completely still, and looked back, suddenly agitated. "I can't remember. Not the taste of that food, the sound of laughter or the smell of the wine. There's nothing."

"I showed you that night, don't you remember?"

Harper looked down again. He seemed confused, uncertain and broken, and Dmitri's hold on the pistol at his side loosened. It was difficult to believe, but his memories were no less vague. The great hall was a quiet place now, solemn and abandoned. It smelled of nothing; no sound could be heard, no sights seen but the fading sun and a floor stained deep red.

"There was a feast held for the command staff right after the northern campaign," Harper said, eyes unfocused as he recalled the unpleasant past. "Hereson shook my hand, and then you looked at me." He pointed to a place on the marble floor, the stone stained crimson. "You were there. I thought you were mocking me, that it was another game I could never understand."

"It was a game," she replied, just as softly. "James saw right through you, and me. The only one who suspected. He was the culprit, wasn't he? An aging man, sharp eyes, cold hands, undeniably more dangerous than the other creatures at that feast. But where was the monster you imagined? He was just a man. Your enemies had no more control than you did. They were no less human than you. Not even me. You saw that, and their faces. I gave you that gift."

"You ruined me. Inside and out, you took everything away and you speak like you expect me to be grateful. I can't even remember what you did to us in those cells, not the worst of it."

"You ruined yourself," she retorted. "Your dream came true. You destroyed Central command, smashed the military leadership, and we executed the survivors in this very room," she said, tapping the floor with one boot. "What a goal it was. Now it's done, and you're still here. Reality isn't as elegantly designed as you might hope."

"It's relentless. Whether you see it or not, there is no closure. Would you like an example? Those on Central's border, all those towns and villages? Starvation is setting in, and you know where that leads. You see, the roads carrying in their food and the men making those deliveries no longer exist. I wonder, did you _actuall_y think you'd help anyone? No, you're no imbecile."

Harper remained still, barely breathing, unable to look away from her. Eliza's words were soft, not at all spiteful, and more painful for it.

"Why?" he finally asked. "Why are you like this? I never understood, not once, no matter how long I stayed with you. Do you enjoy it, is that it?" He was beginning to crack, his composed tone breaking. "All I've done, I never enjoyed a moment of it, not once."

"You killed nine hundred thousand in a few seconds. Whether you enjoyed it or not, I doubt they cared," Eliza said, even now without scorn. "Whatever your motives are, whether you think it means anything or not, it's irrelevant. You're a fool if you think repentance absolves you of the guilt. Do what you like, but don't try to claim altruistic motives now."

"But if we repent, if we end the system that makes it possible—"

"You speak like a child. Suffering is inevitable, and suffering is what takes men like you and has them decide a million have to die before you'll be satisfied. Destroying Central was a great help, no doubt, but to our goals, not yours."

"I don't believe that," Harper said, unsteady and weak. "It had to be done. It couldn't have been for nothing."

Eliza laughed again, and Dmitri paced closer to the stair. He agreed with her, but remaining still was extraordinarily difficult.

Eliza wasn't finished, however. "You should have been more patient about it," she said, speaking as if she were scolding him. "You could have hidden yourself away, used the Third Energy as a threat. Any more atrocities and your nation's army vanishes, you could have told everyone. But then you'd have had to spend years down there, and all you really wanted was to_ feel_ like you'd done something worthwhile."

"That was never an option," Harper said, but his certainty was gone. He pointed harshly at Dmitri, who stared back with cold indifference. "He'd have put a bullet in my head if I tried. Don't tell me you wouldn't have let him; I know you too well."

"It must be so pleasant having an excuse for each and every time you take the easy way out. It's always someone else's fault," Eliza said, voicing everything Dmitri wanted to hear. "It was never an option because you wanted an easy death, not fifty years hidden away underground acting the part of some godly figure."

"Why didn't you kill me when it was done?" Harper asked, struggling to voice the words. "I did everything you wanted, even if you won't say it, but I didn't want to see the aftermath."

"I knew you didn't," Eliza asked, taking another step down. "This is the world you built, and now you can enjoy it with the rest of us. Was it worth it? Please tell me, I'm dying to know."

Dmitri's hand returned to the pistol. All he could see was the back of her head. Long blonde hair flowing down her back, a well-worn grey jacket. He didn't need to see. He could picture the smile, the look of contempt. It was written on his own features. Harper said nothing; there was nothing he could say.

"I tried to show you," she murmured, abandoning the mocking tone. "Didn't you ever wonder why I let you live? You could be made to see, I was sure."

"Made to see what?" Harper spat back, completely agitated. He stepped forward, hands clenched at his sides. "Tell me why you're doing this. _What do you want? _ I'll do it, I have nothing left to lose. Say it and I'll give it to you. I'll kill anyone, I'll find anything, just tell me what I have to do before you'll be satisfied."

Eliza stared back, silent. The contempt was gone, Dmitri knew, replaced by something infinitely more painful. "You really don't understand, do you?"

Harper tried. It was written in his eyes, desperate and agonised. She sighed, looked back up at her comrade above, pale eyes searching for something, perhaps even finding it.

"Perhaps it can't be taught," Eliza said, still so quiet they barely heard. "I took everything from you. Your home, your people, your purpose, even your name. You tried to pretend you could fix it, that you could live to stop it from happening again, and I gave you the chance to see what a lie that was for yourself."

"Not everyone is like you," Harper said, but without conviction. "They do think it's worthwhile. People don't need _you_ to force them to admit anything."

"People are foolish."

"Foolish enough to sit back and let you play this depraved game with their lives."

She smiled again, but didn't answer. Visibly subduing the urge to argue, and even to retreat, Harper closed the remaining distance, only a step away from the sunlight beaming down on them from above. Eliza waited at the base of the stair, one hand still wrapped around the banister. She still didn't answer.

"You're wrong," Harper said, more to himself than her, looking aside. "Look around and tell me it was nothing. I wanted it, and I wanted to be here now. Not even you can take that away."

"People can be whatever they want to be," Eliza agreed, leaning forward as if to share a secret. "But why should we want to be anything?"

"You tell me. You manipulated us for years, and you're still doing it. You planned this down to the last detail, both of you, don't tell me otherwise. Make me understand."

Eliza looked around at the palatial surroundings again. The sun had almost fully set. "A lively hall, cheerful and content, food and wine, the elation of success and the comfort of purpose."

"A lifeless hall, ugly and intolerable," she continued. "Feigned contentment, a room filled with liars, food that tastes of ash; wine that burns in your throat. You feel contempt for their success. The purpose is contrived, worthless, and futile."

She looked at Harper; then back at Dmitri. "Which was real?"

"I saw what you did," Dmitri answered, willing himself not to hesitate. "There was nothing worth celebrating, not before or after. We butchered thousands for what? A week later it was all forgotten, and they moved on to the next task as if that were any less worthless. What was the reason? Can you say? We didn't know."

"It doesn't have to be that way, not forever," Harper murmured, raising one hand in the last of the day's light. "We can change it, even now."

Eliza stepped away from the stairway and he looked up, frozen. "It's not pain I want to escape, but tedium. Each day a thinly veiled repetition of the last, the dreariness hidden beneath worthless excuses."

Dmitri stared down, unmoved, realising Harper was looking past her and at him. Unvoiced questions were written in his eyes, and they went unanswered.

"How do you escape tedium? I'd like to know. Last week I tore a country to pieces, murdered more than I can count, and everyone was so excited. A week passed, and now we're bored. Even the strongest sensations are fleeting. They last a few hours, perhaps a day, then they fade away as if they'd never existed at all. What's left isn't worth all the bother."

"You can't be serious," Harper said, staring back in disbelief. "This is why you said you'd help me? I didn't ever believe you'd go through with it, not this—"

"I wanted to give you an opportunity. What is the strongest sensation we can ever feel?" Eliza asked, closer again. "I think you've already felt it. Your entire life was devoted to fighting an unstoppable military force, and you finally succeeded. Even better, you lost everything you hoped to save in the process. Pleasure _and_ pain at their limits. You'll never surpass that."

"You felt the need to burn an entire country to the ground for this?" he asked, taking a step back. "Well, you've proven the point, so go and shoot yourself."

"I doubt it's necessary at this point, Even if it was, _I want to feel it too._ But I can't. Not yet. It wasn't possible before, and it's not quite possible yet. I'm looking forward to it. The strongest sensation imaginable. Who knows how it'll feel? We'll all have that chance now, one way or another."

Harper fell to one knee. He was utterly spent, looking back with the eyes of a man who hadn't slept in years, worn down by her words until there was nothing left.

She knelt down next to him; Dmitri grasped the pistol, willing her to step away, but she didn't.

"You did everything you could. Through all the torture, all the pain and fear, you remembered that one goal, and now it's over," she whispered in his ear, barely audible. "It's time to let go. This can be the right time, and the right place. There's no shame in that."

Harper wanted to agree. Dmitri saw it in the way he knelt. His neck was stiff, almost forcibly held back from nodding his assent. "Maybe you're right. Nothing I've ever done has worked, one mistake after another. I shouldn't fear it the way I do." He looked up again. "Tell me, Mirzin. Do you agree with her? You had ideals, dreams, even friends to share them with. Don't tell me it's not true."

Dmitri stared back, unfazed. The memories had grown unclear of late, as if he could only see them reflected through murky glass. He'd enjoyed little of it, pushed forward by hatred and sentiment, and when the goal was complete—as had been dangerously close—there was little to do but choose another and repeat the process, unpleasant though it had been the first time.

"There was a day," Dmitri said, slowly leaning over the railing. "I asked myself what I would lose by betraying someone. Quite a difficult decision, you understand. I realised I didn't want anything I had, but I didn't really want anything else either. What was I trying to achieve? Luxury wasn't so different from poverty, though I still hated that only a fraction of us would ever have the chance to see it. What was I to do? I didn't know."

His eyes unfocused, fixed on the gallery above. "And then she found me," he murmured. "The plan, you see, gives me good reason to be here. There's nothing else I'd rather do, and I won't deny it. I've felt more alive in the last month than the last twenty years."

"I find it hard to believe," Harper said. His entire body was tense, eyes darting over to the woman on his right and away, never settling. "I'm supposed to die here, you both say, but you look no better to me. If you want to feel what I did when I pulled that lever, go ahead. Regret and hate, nothing more."

"You're not going to admit it, are you?"

Her words were quiet, free of emotion, even calm. One hand resting on her knee tightened ever so slightly. The signs were there, subtle though they were.

Harper forced himself to look at her. "You actually thought I'd agree? We tried back in the cells, and you wouldn't hear of it. You should have killed me five years ago. That was your _right _time. Everything since? It's worse than death, but I can't seem to stop."

He stood up again, and it seemed to take tremendous effort. "He's armed, and I bet you've got a knife stashed under that shirt. We both know there's not much else under there. Your move, but if you think I'm going to _ask_ you to kill me just to validate your sick philosophy, you're out of luck. Not now, not in another five years."

No response. Eliza remained completely still, said nothing, and looked no different. It was a lie. Dmitri took a step closer, hand on the pistol. Her eyes met his for a brief second, a slight shake of the head. Perhaps he imagined it, so indistinct was the gesture.

Harper raised one hand, tapped the side of his head with a single finger. "Do it, Mirzin. You've been thinking about it ever since I came in, so why wait? Why do you need _permission_?"

"To tell the truth, I would have had the man who followed you here shoot you in the back of the head. Your preferred method, I recall."

"I wouldn't have held it against you," Harper said, taking a step forward and away. "Congratulations, Dmitri. You're everything I never quite managed to be. She'll never let you go now. To tell the truth, you say? Must be a first for you, how's it feel?"

Eliza stood up behind him, expression obscured by the gloom. Each moment was calm and measured. One hand brushed against her side; it would be so simple, and perhaps Harper expected it. He was no less calm, eyes closed, back turned, composed for the first time. She did nothing.

"You're right. You are a disappointment. You need a reason to continue, miserable though you are, so what have you thought of this time?" she asked, curiosity quickly turning to mockery.

"Who knows? I'll do whatever feels right. It's not so hard. Maybe you're right, and maybe you're wrong too. What if there _is_ no strongest sensation? You'd be surprised, Eliza. You never do a damn thing yourself, but you really don't need a rationale to get through the day. Contempt will get you through the good, the bad, and the rest just fine."

His burst of energy soon tapered out. "I can keep going until someone kills me, just you watch, but you can be sure: I'm never going to ask for it. I ought to do it just to piss you off."

It was to her credit, Dmitri thought, that Eliza shifted tactics with even more ease than Harper did. Her perfect moment ruined, and not a hint of unease. "There's plenty to do, I'll grant you that. In the south, in the east, and in the north. Every attempt to restore what was lost, and there are many. They need to be stopped."

Harper's defiant glower lost its potency; he stared at them, taken aback. "What do you mean, restore what was lost?"

"You didn't think it would be so easy? We have a large army, you see, and an army without purpose will find one of its own much sooner than any individual. Fortunately they'll throw themselves against any enemy we can find until there's nothing left."

"The division General Hereson tried to assemble before his execution is scheduled to march east and never return," Dmitri added, attracting a raised eyebrow from Eliza. She was impressed, he realised, and it came with a hint of satisfaction.

Harper barely heard. "What about the north? You said they're—"

"Oh, don't worry. You see, a number of important officials escaped to your old homeland. Officers, soldiers, dissidents; people who know too much. The man leading them escaped from us last week. He knows _everything_, including all our secrets."

"So Kirk is alive?" Harper asked, attempting to hold back anger and failing. "You let _him_ leave?"

"Someone thought him worth rescuing," Eliza answered, her tone mild. "Something that could never be said for you."

"Why? Who? He's lost everything; he's no better than me now. Where did he go?"

Harper's manner was suddenly incensed, even feverish. Eliza saw it too, and the look she gave her comrade above, knowing and with undisguised malice, brought with it a wave of anticipation. She was always right.

"He told me he wants revenge, you know," Eliza said in a low voice. "You stole and abused his work, killed his only friend for all he knows, left him with nowhere to go but back. To the man he was, and the solutions he's familiar with."

Alarm and frustration quickly replaced any of Harper's feeble attempts at calmness, swept away any dignity. "I stole his work to stop this from happening again. Why would he—"

"He invented a goal too, just like you did. But you don't need to worry," she said, not hiding her growing elation. "The man in charge of the defence understands what's at stake at least as much as you do. He heard Kirk say it himself. He and James made a deal on that rooftop, you see. Who knows what it could be?"

Only one detail was heard. "Who? How do they understand? There's nobody left who could—"

"Jean Liebert. Oh, didn't I tell you? He survived the purge. The only one left."

Eliza looked up at Dmitri, ran a hand through her hair, and stared back at Harper. The point would never be proven. Dmitri was sure of it now. He would never stand still and say it was the right time to die. She knew this as well, but the torture had resumed, and in a more refined form.

"He sacrificed thousands of us to save himself," Harper said, still under the mistaken impression that she could be reasoned with. "He's worse than Hereson ever was, and you let him live?"

"He's the one who convinced Hereson's staff to hear my proposal," Eliza argued, smiling again. "We took them up here, told them we'd explain everything. We did, and he fired the first shot himself." She pointed to the crimson stains at the hall's centre.

"Send me instead," he urged, all else forgotten. "I'll do it properly. Make it a game if you have to. You can forget about anything north of those mountains. I'll do it all."

There was something unnatural, Dmitri thought, about his thought processes. While an officer none of this hatred had ever shown except in hints, only to erupt in full after his sudden defection. Scattered fixations shifting from object to object, delusional hope returning at the worst time. He was all but certainly insane.

"Do what? They fooled you once. I saw the blood on Edward's shirt; Dmitri's men found the corpse. Kesler escaped with him, helped him to survive. They'd been plotting against you for weeks. She helped me the first time, you know, and oversaw more than one execution. Doesn't that seem wrong to you?"

Harper's face darkened, arm shaking at his side. It nearly began to take more willpower than he had to offer, but he managed not to respond. The veiled insults and taunts, only ever hints, left their mark and faded away. They could have been entirely imagined, for she spoke as if they were close friends sharing a secret.

It was her talent. With each word the faintest glimpse of the reality she saw was revealed, and in their wake they left the listener hollow and empty, willing to do anything for the whole vision to be unveiled. All blatant lies, Dmitri thought, saying nothing.

"You'll let me do it, not Liebert?" It could have been the most important question ever asked, to hear the gravity of his tone.

"You'll both do it. He needs to feel wanted, or I might be shot in the back when I'm not looking. You can be sure, there'll be no atrocities on our end. Only the military you despise tearing itself to pieces while we watch."

She turned aside slightly, then back. Calculated language and movements, nothing more. "The woman who risked herself to save Edward. Do you know who she is, or why she would do such a thing?"

He didn't. It showed in his eyes, blank and hesitant. "I don't. I know nothing about him, only what I saw. I hated it. The day we met, he looked just like you. Had to restrain myself from caving his face in more than once just so I didn't have to see that sneer again. You've got that same look now, Mirzin. Would've left those bullets in your shoulder if I'd known what I do now."

Smiling now, Eliza chose to ignore his outburst. "It's interesting that you think we're so similar. I've learned some fascinating things. I heard it from James himself before his death, disguised as an ordinary soldier. You remember how convincing I can be."

"You did it to them too," Harper murmured, failing to hide a flash of fear.

"There were plans for another Third Energy program, or so they say," Eliza continued, still smiling. Dmitri held himself exactly as he was, not betraying any emotion.

Silence fell across the hall. Disbelief, betrayal, caution: each passed over Harper's face while he looked between them both.

"It's only a rumour," she said, reserved as she'd ever been. "The generators could be mass produced off that one design. You noticed both of them were exactly the same, I presume? I don't necessarily believe it myself, but it's hardly beyond imagining."

"And you say Hereson knew?" Harper asked. His left arm twitched at his side, betraying his caution for the lie it was.

Eliza shrugged, taking a step back. "A little. Anton didn't give up after the supposed destruction of the first facility. Sadly we never did find another capable physicist, which is why we as good as invaded Borginia a second time to recapture Edward. Those attempts were noticed, or some of them were. James and Gail pieced it together, and you _know_ that brute of a man shared everything he knew."

"This is too much," Harper protested, looking up at Dmitri in vain for support. "He said he wanted to stop it from ever being used as a weapon."

"And he wasn't lying," Eliza said slowly, as if to a child. "He needs a reason to exist as much as you do. It's always been that project, and it always will be. There's an emptiness inside him, and he thinks it'll be filled when his work is complete. Not as a weapon, perhaps, but we saw how well that worked the first time."

"I don't—"

"It's quite simple. A return from exile for him and his pets, Andrea and Regina; the return of his work, this time only as an energy project under his complete control, and reprisal against you, and me, and Anton, all of whom he despised much more than the good general. They worked it all out on the night, and then I arrived. A wonderful plan, one I'd definitely have used in his place."

"It's irrelevant," Harper retorted, daring to think anything he said mattered. "Hereson's dead, there is no agreement now."

"Nonetheless, one of James's favoured officers committed an act of treason to save his life. Why would she do that? The same woman retrieved him from that warehouse. You remember, don't you? They already knew each other," Eliza said, leaning forward. "It was a plot. Kesler on one side; this Lyra on the other, both in his pocket."

Finally her words left their mark. Harper didn't need to speak, not for them both to see he was coming to believe her. The memories were forced aside, too painful to consider for longer than a brief moment.

Dmitri knew the truth. He'd been there, even seen the woman in question on the street. A moment of recognition one night; a firefight in the street the next. Ceremonial guardsmen had cut down half Captain Ackerman's unit at his prompting. It had never happened, he decided.

"It's not possible," Harper answered, shakier by the second. "I saw Regina there. She was as surprised as I was, even told me on the street much later—"

"She wouldn't have known," Eliza immediately countered. "Edward left her with Andrea while he arranged the other half of the deal. Too injured to make the walk, you see, and she _was_ on the wanted list. How nice of him. An hour later veteran militiamen and professional soldiers meet in a warehouse, and not a single person dies in the ensuing firefight. It doesn't seem odd to you?"

She let out a long breath, looked ruefully to one side and back. "Well, _one_ person died. I suppose it could have been a coincidence. He wouldn't have gone to all that trouble just for you, the man who wanted to reveal his work to the rest of the world. The same work he desperately wanted to hide. No, just a coincidence."

It could have been true. Dmitri and his men had seen for themselves, concealed in one of the many abandoned industrial buildings on the other side. Harper had entered alone. Kirk soon followed, a panic-stricken woman with long brown hair at his side, but she remained outside for a long moment before following. Kesler and Regina next, and then he'd seen Lyra again. What had actually happened in the warehouse?

Harper was debating this with himself. Eliza's arguments were persuasive, her tone one of regret, subtle hints of outrage and conspiracy. It was never enough to be persuasive if the recipient didn't want to believe.

But Dmitri reconsidered. There was one missing detail. Harper fled with the devices, and he'd left to follow after checking the street from above. Unseen by Harper, another man entered after his escape. Gail was not a participant in their revised history. He had never been there. He was on the other side of the city at the time, or perhaps in western command.

"He was the only friend she'd made since the cells," Harper murmured. "The only one, and a man too. I didn't know if she'd ever recover. I thought it was a good sign."

Pensive at first, he turned back with a sudden look of betrayal. "I had _her_ alone, and _twice_ I let her live. They met not even a year ago, and I had that respect for them. I leave him with the one person who never deserved any of this, not for a moment, _his_ friend as well as mine, and he brought her back there to die."

"It does seem that way," Eliza commented, uncommitted if her tone was to be believed. "Now you know why I'm so concerned. He's smarter than most, and a better liar than you'd think. Jean is going to have trouble with him, and his methods can be rather drastic when the easy options fail."

"I'll do it," Harper declared, looking up again, daring her to object. "That bastard lied to us more than once, so why not again? I'll ask him myself. If Kesler and this officer are there, as you say, what choice do I have but to believe you?"

"And if he lies again?" Dmitri asked, doubtful. "He seemed to think highly of honesty when we last met. Of course, I did feign obliviousness from the moment we met. He saw through it eventually."

"You should know. You both taught me what to do with liars, though you're worse than I ever was. I'm tired of being on the receiving end."

"I wish it were so easy for me. Are you sure you'd rather not be content with your success and finish now?" Eliza asked, but without any real interest. The plan had already shifted, and she knew his answer.

"Oh, no. You see, it's not so hard to find resolve. You just decide; then it appears," Harper replied, his subdued look retreating. "The regret I felt when I pulled that lever is more than I can ever describe, but I don't need to. You'll feel it too before you die, Eliza, and I hope I get to see it."

"I doubt it, but you're free to wait and see for yourself," Eliza said, closing the distance and grasping his arm in both hands. "I'd like to see Edward again. There are so many questions he didn't give me the time to ask."

He hesitated. "I want to believe you're not lying." A moment of recognition, dangerously close, and it faded away. It was such a satisfying truth, infinitely preferable to the ugly reality. An unfortunate error on all sides, a _mistake_, or a villain to be hunted and punished. It was the satisfying lie or the bullet, in truth, though he hadn't the clarity to see it.

"If I do it you'll keep the military away," Harper said, not looking away. "You'll pull out of the north. You'll destroy both generators, never use them again. And you'll let me kill Liebert for what he did to us."

The illusion was broken, and her contempt unhidden. "That will depend on your performance," she replied, letting go of his arm. "All this time, and all this change. You're not so different from the man I met five years ago, but it seems we still need each other. Don't mistake me. You are a disappointment, and we are finished now. Go."

Harper remained entirely motionless. A flash of scorn, even hatred, gleamed for the briefest instant through his composed manner. Dmitri's hand tightened on the pistol; slowly pulled it free. All pretence of serenity was abandoned on both sides.

Returning to the stair, Eliza met his questioning stare but gave no answers. Harper still hadn't moved. "Even if you aren't lying, he's no worse than you. Don't think I'll forget that."

"You're right, I suspect. You can justify the most terrible things so easily when you realise the consequences aren't of any real importance. He still cares."

"I could lunge forward and snap your neck now, Eliza," Harper said, an unnatural grin taking shape as he stared back. "He'd shoot me, but not in time to save you."

"You could," Eliza said, extending one hand, inviting him to approach. "You could, but you won't. You'll run instead. It's all you can ever do."

Obscured and unlit, the twin doors waiting at the far end suddenly seemed to loom over them. Standing silently before him, it was easy to believe Eliza would have more respect for Harper if he did indeed lunge forward and batter her to death.

He wanted to do it. They could all see it. Dmitri carefully raised the pistol in one hand and positioned it through the railing. Another step forward and the plan would be modified. Her flagrant disregard for personal safety was decidedly less impressive than it had once been, and he no longer cared for theatrics.

Whether the threat made any difference or if her survival was indeed as inevitable as she seemed to think he never quite knew. One hand twitching, scowling as he considered the futile decision, Harper spun around to leave without another word.

Solely to spite him, undoubtedly, Eliza called out a request to turn on the lights as he vanished into the shadows. The doors creaked open and, as requested, vibrant light soon beamed down from the high ceiling.

Blinking to adjust, one hand over his eyes, he looked down to see her reaction free of feigned emotion. There was nothing to be seen. A blank face, neutral posture, no signs of distress at all. Not once did he ever have to lie to her, and the same couldn't be said for anybody else he'd ever known. Her own idiosyncrasies, frustrating though they could be, paled in comparison to the gratefulness he felt for their close relationship.

"It would have been kinder to let me shoot him," he commented, once more not bothering to hide his own natural mannerisms. Dry, unaffected, and as she'd said: a surprising amount of contempt.

"Which is exactly why you didn't. He hasn't had enough of his miserable life. So be it. He can go and murder as many as he likes in that wasteland he once called a home, all for our benefit. We'll have to tell Jean about this slight historical revision," Eliza said, idly running a hand over her chin.

"It's all an excuse. He's worse than Kirk will ever be. That woman is still here, you know. He cut her mother's throat on the street, shot her father in the back of the head. How can he justify revenge?"

"Easily enough. A bit of forgetfulness does wonders. Do you remember the night of the massacre?"

Dmitri remembered all too well, the morning after standing out as particularly pleasant. She ascended the stairway, waited for a response, and saw his thoughtfulness.

"No, earlier than that," Eliza remarked, letting out a long sigh. "Before we left the command centre. She didn't care. Not about the massacre, and not when we executed the director. Interesting."

"She wants him dead. Thinks it's necessary, I suppose, and I don't deny it is, but he didn't commit those crimes alone."

"What are you suggesting? You really ought to try speaking your mind; it's not as painful as you seem to think."

"Miranda Pretsin has no reason to live. Medically predisposed to it, actually. She does, however, very much want her parents' murderers to die. She seems willing to do it herself, but curiously never revealed this desire to her previous benefactor, Gail. One of those murderers is a friend of his, and she knew it."

"You're still not speaking your mind," Eliza said, an inadvertent smile betraying her amusement. "I see the point, but you really ought to say it anyway. It's good practice."

Dmitri sighed involuntarily. "Who wanted her parents dead?"

"We established that. Harper and his enlisted assistant, fresh from five years as a soldier. You were there."

"Was there nobody else? What if somebody else gave the order?"

Eliza took a step closer, leaned in and stared at him closely. "Do you know something I don't?"

"No, not really," Dmitri admitted, a rueful smile growing as he spoke. "Who was ultimately responsible? Does it even matter? Only one sin soon leads to another, some like to believe. If we needed somebody dead, conceivably this person could be linked to the murders. It isn't beyond imagining."

The cold stare, the distance in her pale eyes: both retreated as he watched, and each time it happened he would never forget. A genuine smile free of melancholy, and Eliza was finally gratified. She grasped his arm in both hands, looked at him eagerly. "You understand, don't you? You see it too, even if they never will."

"People can believe whatever they want to believe," Dmitri Mirzin stated, taking in every detail of the striking sight before him before it was lost forever. His eyes widened in surprise, breath caught in his throat, as she moved closer again and embraced him.

"And we can be anything we want to be," Eliza Anders murmured into his shoulder. Uncertainty disregarded, he held her there in the vast and silent hall, the deep ache in that same shoulder ignored. The faintest hint of dissent wormed its way into his thoughts. It was soon forgotten.


	31. Chapter 31

_Note: It's taken extraordinarily long for me to understand the idea of a subchapter. Nevermind that half the books I read use them, somewhere along the line the idea was forgotten. Well, not here. Now you can read your ten thousand words in three segments, as I ought to have done ten years ago._

All long-awaited and seemingly inevitable events were associated with turmoil. This was hardly unexpected. Less anticipated, though no less avoidable, was the slow return to something curiously resembling the ordinariness of past days so violently thrown aside.

Whether this was regrettable or not was difficult to say. A certain satisfaction could be taken in seeing the enormous military machine that dominated the Alvernian political landscape fracture and tear itself apart. Few bothered to deny that, at least when alone.

And alone they were, more likely than not. The military had not only ruled in all but name, but administrated in all but name. When a matter needed urgent attention the local elected official would sink into the earth and only emerge when that matter was long forgotten. If there was power to be had, the wielder had worn blue. Many of these wielders had recently seen fit to leave the world and its burdens behind.

Few tears were wasted on them, but it was a poor start to any reformed government if the system was cleaned out from within and replaced by nothing. No news had been broadcast, no messages delivered. What came next nobody knew, and if they did the men living in the next town over almost certainly didn't.

That hadn't stopped the political manoeuvring. Was it so wrong for a regional official to hope for a sliver of legitimate authority? He was elected, he would protest, never mind that four-fifths of the populace hadn't ever realised, nor that near empty sacks of votes had emerged from the trucks stuffed to the brim with ballots. Well, nobody disputed that, and for all the whispers of a manipulator at work in Merestan the local officials made it work in the absence of official orders.

Unpredictable though the flow of information was, there were certain obvious truths. The remnants of that glorious and perpetually muddled administrative body had been left with a formerly oppressed minority, a moderate, as its official face. It was difficult to complain, given Jean Liebert was the only member of the command staff to escape execution. He held the largest fortress still intact, and most of the scattered forces had taken that as a sign of legitimacy, undoubtedly hoping a swift show of allegiance would end with even swifter rewards.

Those who whispered orders in his ear had vanished entirely. Scattered around were those who knew the truth, or who could make a convincing guess, but little was said. The questions were unpleasant enough, and the questioners had a habit of coming to lamentable ends. Even a cursory glance at how such problems had been resolved in the past led to a long series of mass graves.

Troubling, unsatisfactory, but hardly hopeless. That was Edward Kirk's assessment, and so convincing was his rhetoric that when he declared his intentions nobody bothered to protest for long. And so he found himself walking an unmemorable central road in an equally unassuming town. At his side was a single figure, armed, intimidating, and perhaps even less dour than usual.

"Imagine this," Edward said, eyes fixed on a small crowd ahead. "You're in an unfamiliar place, know nothing about the people or their culture, and you need to know who's giving the orders. What do you do?"

"Mayor's office was a few blocks back," Andrea Kesler said, uncommitted as ever.

"Was that the boarded-up office by the clock tower, or the burnt one the next street over?"

"Neither. They don't even have a mayor. They might have a tourism office."

"Delightful as ever. I can think of one way to find an answer," he said, gesturing at the crowd. "Go and see who's unloading the only supplies they're getting for a week."

"They weren't all stupid enough to take the train, were they?" Kesler asked. It was astounding to hear someone so perpetually cynical manage to sound even more so without effort.

Three months had passed since the national capital and its legions of officials had vanished in a burst of light, taking a great deal of the army with them. The military had yet to bother asserting its authority over the frontier regions. Some claimed it couldn't, though never loudly. Edward thought differently. It was too quiet, and too precise. They all felt it. A tension in the air, an intentional uncertainty.

Exasperated as she was, they continued without further protest. There was good reason to be there, though it was difficult to see it. Secluded in a vast valley bordered by mountains on three sides, this isolated settlement indulged in farming, logging, even steel production, but never enough to be known for any of these pursuits, or indeed for anything else. It was hardly remarkable.

What was remarkable was the train line running through these mountains. It connected the port town to the west with the southern towns, running as far down as Merestan, and bridged the gap between these comparatively notable destinations and the similarly notable northern capital. In a land stricken by poverty and destitution this was a valuable feature indeed. The train had just arrived.

They joined the small crowds, most waiting patiently, more carefully eyeing Kesler and the rifle slung over her shoulder as they approached. That wasn't unusual either, but Edward glanced over his shoulder and caught her attention with a whisper.

"You look like you're about to raid the place. Try slouching, and less scowling."

"It'd be easier if we did," she said, but she also took the hint. Never before had it looked so uncomfortable.

They found a vaguely official looking man, politely questioned him, and determined that this particular shipment of goods was exactly as expected. Never mind that he hadn't checked the cargo, nor spoken to anyone from the crew. No, all was certainly as expected.

Two passenger cars opened first, a small number of weary travellers emerging. Armed riflemen emerged to oversee the transfer of the cargo into several trucks. Seeing any vehicle at all was rare so far north, and they knew their value well. Even so, there was something unsure, almost unprofessional, about these soldiers.

"Military police. See the black outfits?" Kesler murmured, pointing with one finger. "But are they just wearing the colours, or are they still in contact?"

"Definitely still in contact," a man said, trying without much success to sound cheerful.

They both stiffened in alarm. It was an instinctual response, one a shared grimace made all too clear.

But there was no reason for alarm. As expected, many of the passengers on that train were known to them. This one especially. Rick managed to look much less conspicuous, attracting no attention at all. He held up a piece of paper, one marked with the same insignia on the military police uniforms.

"You are alive, then," Edward remarked.

"Don't sound too excited," Rick said, but he pressed the paper into his hand. "Check it out. This is their entire manifesto. Cargo, personnel, everything."

"You aren't useless, then," Kesler added, with a rare if admittedly faint smile.

"If I knew this was the welcome I'd get I'd have stayed on the coast," Rick said. His indignation was feigned, but the relief in his eyes wasn't. "No, I take it back. Even you aren't as cold as the wind coming off that ocean. I never want to go back there."

"Someone once told me you can freeze to death up here," Edward said, gesturing for them to follow him back. Officially hunted or not, the military police seemed nervous. Kesler alone had spent months on a shoot to kill list, and he didn't want to test their memories.

Rick was difficult to understand. He was friendly, yes, but there was a long list of convictions locked away in his mind. The key to dealing with him was to indulge these convictions. He had little time for transgressors, and this could easily be difficult. Edward Kirk was no moralist, and his position on ethics naturally rested somewhere between complete apathy and a sort of sneering disdain.

Fortunately he said little about it. Whether it was his performance on the night of their defeat, the respect he was given from Kesler and their many other allies, or something else entirely, Rick had seen fit to act as if they'd only met that night. Edward had done the same. Quite telling, however, was the way they never stayed together for long. It was uncomfortable, and he didn't quite know why.

Emerging from the grimy brick entrance to the station, his eyes quickly scanning the document, he handed it over to Kesler, dejected.

"Nothing as conspiratorial as I might have hoped. Not unless ten crates of apples is a euphemism. Are they smart enough to do that? And look at that passenger list. It's so dull it borders on offensive."

"Well," Rick said, "this stuff's supposed to be sent on to northern command. Looked like they were taking half of it for themselves to me. Those apples came from Merestan. I know that much. Fruit or guns, we'll never know."

"Doesn't mean much by itself," Kesler added. She leaned back against the wall, eyes fixed on the central clock tower. "Odds are they'll lighten the load and send Liebert's guys at least half what they wanted."

"They might. It's not our problem," Edward said. "I saw all I needed to know. The country's fallen apart, the only soldiers left are marching off to die in the south and the east. The military police are busier than ever, and that's a start. We'll have to ask them some questions."

"That's reassuring," Rick said. "Or suicidal. You don't even know who sent them here."

"It's true enough," Kesler said, though without much enthusiasm. "It's still the provost marshal, whoever that is. They never gave us names. You had to ask Central for information about this place, and I don't think the bureaucrats ever planned for the whole city disappearing."

"You'd imagine not," Edward said. He quickly turned again and gestured for them to follow. "Let's go. This is no risk at all, believe me."

"Believe you?" Rick asked in disbelief. "Listen, you were right, Kirk. I did everything you asked, and we _were_ followed. Not for long, but about three hours three days ago. And on the train too; not all of them were as innocent as you think. You think that's all? The raids have started on the southern border, the same way they've always done it. This is a risk."

Kesler clapped a hand on his shoulder. "It really isn't. Not this time. So, to the provost marshal's office?"

"We don't even know where that is. Or if it's even in this town."

"Ah," Edward said, pointing flatly at a steel sign. "But that sign says it's about five minutes from here."

As was inevitable Rick conceded defeat and joined them. Not that he had anywhere else to go.

"Did you leave your, ah, friend, on the coast?" Edward asked. Every time he thought of Rick's Borginian lover, or whatever she was, all he recalled was General Hereson's denouncement of that name as a pseudonym and his subsequent evisceration of her arguments. It was understandable. He'd lived in Borginia too, and it was not a name used there.

Rick didn't seem to care. "I told Melissa not to take the train," he said. "She's taking the fifty you left with us by the western road. So, if one of us is caught, the other can still escape. Better me than her."

"Touching. That may prove to be a problem."

"Like right now?" Kesler said, adjusting the straps holding her rifle.

As she'd so casually hinted, there did appear to be a single man following them. And by following them, Edward was forced to admit that meant he was walking the same road and had the same stiff posture he'd so recently lambasted Kesler for not concealing. Unforgivably suspicious, all could agree.

"Well, forget him," he said, waving it off entirely. "As we said. There's no risk."

"It'd be easier if you told me why," Rick argued. "And why when I left there were about three hundred with you, and now it's just the two of you."

"It must be my personality."

"I hope you weren't expecting me to disagree," Kesler said, allowing another smile. "Our only real advantage is obscurity. And since you found nothing on the coast, we're not in a good position. That's not going to work for long, and I don't suppose you want to run away and pretend this never happened?"

Rick didn't answer, but his expression turned to seriousness quickly enough.

"I thought so," she said, satisfied. "You heard the news from the south. Once they're all dead, that obscurity's gone. A few more weeks and we'll follow, unless we take that option off the table. If that's even possible. I expect you'll know the rest before the sun sets."

Rick peered up at the clock tower. "It only just passed midday. And what if none of them are even here?"

"Don't worry. Northern winter. The sun's probably going to set in ten minutes. If they're not here, we can walk into northern command without a problem. But If we don't hurry we'll have to come back tomorrow."

"If that's true you'll kick down the door," Edward declared. "We'll find Liebert's address and send him an invitation."

"Nothing the military police love more than petty vandalism," Kesler said.

"Petty vandalism," he objected. "Have you seen your own wanted poster?"

"Was that an insult? Not all of us were blessed with your good looks. Half the women you've met were envious of that hair, Kirk."

"Are you _trying _to get us caught?" Rick finally said, genuinely perplexed.

They waved his concerns away, turning a corner without the slightest hint of an answer. It was intolerable for a man with his training to see such blatant disregard for caution, ulterior motives or not.

Admittedly Rick's suspicions were well-founded. It was subtle, but the signs were there. A lingering stare, a face too familiar, then gone, and back in a week. Why deny it? After a certain point the worst part of being hunted was always the uncertainty. There was little of that this time.

The only real point of doubt was how it would be done, and who would do it. Edward Kirk was many things, many of them lamentable, but obliviousness was something he'd left behind. He saw what they all pretended wasn't true. All the same woman who'd fought the most hellish conflicts, turned on the military for its methods, then turned on Royce for his, still pretended wasn't true.

And if Kesler was afraid, he couldn't imagine what the rest of them felt. Three hundred had left with them, militiamen and dissenting soldiers alike. They looked to him for direction. They didn't know why. Only that three figures had risen from obscurity and thrown the veil off a military state, that he was connected, and that he was respected by those they respected.

Fortunately the risks weren't immediate. If economic exploitation was the ultimate source of these rebellions, well, that couldn't easily be denied. Not in Merestan, at least. In the north there had scarcely been any wealth to begin with. Any found after the invasion was promptly shipped south, and most of the benefactors had never once seen their new acquisitions. So pitiful were the conditions that they could effectively seize a town and hold it indefinitely if only they didn't dare ask to be fed.

He would have found that amusing once. If one man declared his refusal to submit to blind nationalism, well, he ought to be spat on and kicked into the mud. If three hundred armed men joined him they were inevitably bestowed with some hint of legitimacy. Add twenty thousand and it was an undeniably righteous rebellion, or could easily pretend it was with surprising success.

They came to a stop halfway down the street. The air was bitter, each breath coming out in a puff of condensation, and heavy grey clouds blotted out the sun entirely.

"Looks like our guess was a good one," Kesler commented. She pointed at a truck backing into a warehouse at the other end. "Want to take a look?"

"I've had enough of warehouses for a lifetime," Edward said. She knew as much already, but he appreciated the offer of an excuse. He glanced aside at the clock tower, then up at the building before them. "This is the provost marshal's office? Not very impressive, is it?"

"It's old," Kesler pointed out. "At least thirty years, to look at those bricks. We knocked down enough of their buildings. I doubt they're going to start adding to the total."

The moment it was forgotten, he found himself recalling what must have happened here. Whatever her role had been, he'd never asked. Rick was thinking the same, he was sure.

Grimacing, Edward looked at the door. The office immediately inside, small but comfortably furnished, was empty.

"No point delaying any further. Meet me back here in, well, you can figure it out."

"Wait, what?" Rick objected, gesturing in futile protest. "You can't be—"

"Come on. Let's go get some lunch. I hope you're not as broke as I am," Kesler said, grabbing his arm as she walked. Edward glanced back as she did, nodded slightly, and entered alone.

II

Edward Kirk had never been one to appreciate, well, anything. Pleasure or not, it usually seemed tinged with an undeniable dullness, a perpetual dissatisfaction. The air in that reception area, hot and stuffy, tinged with the peculiar smell of cinnamon, was a rare exception.

"Having a nice day, I take it?" a dry voice asked, almost mocking, but not quite malicious enough to be judged so.

A young woman, presumably the receptionist, had appeared in the space of a second behind the previously empty counter. Dirty blonde hair, pragmatic clothes, and a hint of an accent in that amused voice were his immediate observations.

Edward took one of four seats. "Something must be terribly wrong if I am."

"Don't complain too much," she said, leaning over the counter. "And enjoy it for as long as you can. I've been here a month and my first good day's still not here. I suppose it could still be today."

The door opened again, a feeble bell ringing to announce the entrance of a second man. He wore a heavy longcoat and what looked to be a suit underneath. The same man from the street, Edward observed. He argued in a lowered tone with the receptionist for well over a minute, conceded defeat with a look of disgust, and took the far seat without another word.

Neither of them were especially memorable. So much so it seemed intentional, though the receptionist was hardly unattractive. Young, vibrant, clearly in enviable shape, and if not the gleam in her eyes as they swept the room he still would have dismissed her. He was careful, however, not to stare. Mistakes could be made once, but certainly not twice, and preferably not once either.

"Two in a day. Lucky me," she said, smiling. "The provost marshal can see you both in, well, about ten minutes."

It was sure to be someone's lucky day, but to see the other man's expression it was easy to think someone had just burned his house down. It was nearly time, and the receptionist's eyes finally fixed on something. She gestured him over, and so Edward stood up again and approached the counter.

"A man asked me if someone matching your description had been here," she said quietly.

"And?"

"Blonde hair, a sneer, terribly thin, and with a, ah, distinguished way of speaking. You seem like him to me."

"And if I am?"

"Someone's looking for you. He's tall, speaks like the locals, pretty grey eyes. Looked about as cheerful as you, and as handsome."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Edward said. Either it was true, or a test. Perhaps both. Either way he didn't mind.

He did mind the barrel of a pistol being pressed into his lower back. Not too much, but enough. The miserable man in the long coat stood behind him, and the receptionist looked appropriately startled, taking a step back in alarm.

"I'm popular, aren't I? Everywhere I go someone follows, and with one of these," Edward said, still smiling at the receptionist. He'd been so often held at gunpoint the threat had lost its novelty. He glanced over his shoulder. "Was it the tall, scowling one who sent you, or the blonde one?"

"Neither," the gunman said, almost uncertain.

That was a lovely thing to hear. As uncomfortable as it was, he'd prefer if Eliza's attention were fixed on anyone but him. If not he'd have almost assumed the entire town had been briefed to await their arrival, absurd as the idea was, in some specially designed show of mockery. Fortunately, as Kesler said, it seemed unlikely while more immediate threats lingered on her border.

"This would be the most appropriate time for the military police to arrive," Edward remarked instead. They had collectively vanished into the ether, for all he could see.

"It would, but they won't. We've been watching too."

"I know. Still. I paid my taxes for so long, and what did I get in return?"

"This is your lucky day. We're here for them, not you, but you look familiar to me. A dissident meeting the provost marshal? They'll be interested to hear that back south," he said, taking a closer look. "You do look familiar. I might even have a message for you."

"Well, tell me outside. I can't have just anyone knowing my business," he said, nodding at the receptionist. She was eerily calm.

Fortunately the gunman agreed. They left without another word. The return of the winter chill seeping into his bones was quite the reminder to stay awake, unfortunately.

Three others waited on the road outside, all heavily armed, terribly conspicuous, and equally miserable. They weren't used to the climate either, evidently.

"Now we're here," the gunman said. He pulled a photograph from his pocket, glanced at it, and threw it aside. "Doctor Edward Kirk. A medical doctor? Sorry to say it, but you're on our list. You've attracted quite some attention just by showing your face here."

"If only you knew how I tried to avoid it," Edward said, looking over the other three.

"I don't care," the one in the lead said. There was a blue collar under his coat. "Take him back to camp; we'll deal with the other two. Answer our questions, and you'll be fine."

"That's peculiar," Edward said, frowning at the man. "You're sure you can't ask them here?"

"And give your friends time to find us? Be quiet and do this the easy way."

"Well, if you insist. Just remember: this is entirely your fault," Edward said, shrugging in a show of helplessness.

He took a step forward, approaching the uniformed one, the only one with his rifle raised. As he did he slowly raised one hand, and when it was fully extended he let it drop.

The back of the man's head exploded, scattering the road with bone and gore. His two companions threw themselves to the floor immediately, the man behind having the wit to seize Edward as a human shield.

They retreated back, under shelter. Another sonorous crack and one of those two men was shot through the back from above. Efficiency was highly valued indeed.

"Well, look at that. They're already here. Or the locals are looking for retribution. It must be hard, having so many enemies."

"How could a doctor organise this? What the—"

"That clock tower's a marvellous piece of architecture, don't you think?" Edward said, allowing himself to be pulled back into the office. "And blame your bosses for not warning you about this; they really do consider you expendable. Don't worry. Just answer all my questions and you can go. First one: why are you actually here?"

"Oh, I'll tell you," the gunman said. He threw his captive forward and against the glass. "Right after—"

He didn't have the chance to finish. An ear-piercing shriek filled the room, more agonised than could be imagined, and he said no more.

As Edward pulled himself up, away from the window, he saw why. That gunman had fallen to the floor completely limp, an expression of unimaginable anguish twisting his features. Blood sputtered out from his back in bursts.

Above stood the receptionist. Still smiling, that manic gleam in her eye back, she knelt down and turned the dying man over. Edward turned aside immediately, overcome with nausea.

"I saved you," she announced.

That was one way to put it. A dagger had been thrust into the man's spine, just below the shoulders. She'd cut his spinal cord, and a single gunshot from the rear door finished the execution.

The newcomer wore a black military police uniform, but he hardly looked the part. Tall, heavily muscled and scarred, he watched his smiling companion with thinly disguised distaste. So unpleasant did the situation seem at first that Edward only barely heard the words they shared.

He didn't look at the corpse again. Instead he looked between them. The young woman eagerly discussing something, the older man calmly responding with a harsh voice and harder eyes. It only took a moment.

"Not bad," he said, turning back to them. "You hide it well, but those are Borginian accents. Forgive me for assuming their interest in you wasn't solely a burst of xenophobia."

"Wait, you know?" the woman asked, looking over her shoulder in surprise. "How?"

"I spent a few years in Borginia. You didn't even bother to check?"

"Why would we?" the older man said, clearly unimpressed, perhaps with them both. "You're the one who came to us. Did you check who we were before your friends shot two soldiers in my town? Any thought for the reports I'll have to write to smooth this over? No, clearly not."

"Don't mind him," the other one said. "You saved us the trouble, so we ought to thank you." She wiped the blood on the dead man's clothes, left the knife there, and extended the same hand as if there couldn't possibly be any need for further explanation.

"I'm Anya," she said, "and he's Johan."

So perplexing was this entire situation that all Edward could do was glance outside at the two corpses, then back at the two Borginians who supposedly had never heard of him.

The urge to laugh was too strong, and so he did. It was one of those moments so peculiar that there was little left to do. "Edward Kirk," he said, hesitantly taking the offered hand. "Some of us have two names. Fewer than you might expect."

Fortunately any question of sanity was averted. The window shattered, spraying the room with glass, and as they recoiled the door slammed open. Slightly late, or not, he wasn't sure, but Rick and Kesler had returned and with an impressive show of force.

Standing at rifle point, neither Anya nor Johan showed the slightest sign of fear. The former just smiled, cheerful as ever, leaving Rick in an unenviably confused state. Johan dropped the pistol to the floor with a muffled thud.

"Isn't it refreshing to be on this end of a trap?" Edward asked. "We ought to do it more often."

"Don't get smug, Kirk. And tell me exactly what happened to _him_," Kesler retorted. Something in her tone changed as she saw the corpse, he noticed, and not for the better.

"He was going to shoot your friend," Anya said. "Now he won't."

The gun hadn't even been raised, but he said nothing. Kesler would kill them both, he could see, with the slightest provocation. Her hands were pale, jaw clenched, and without uncertainty.

"Is that so? You in the uniform. Turn around."

With all reluctance, Johan did turn around. "Hey. It's been a while. Figured you'd be dead by now."

"Mind explaining?" Rick said, glancing over at the man he thought he'd saved. "She told me you were just going to capture whoever they sent and raid the place for information. Who are they?"

Edward sincerely hoped his shrug and look of bemusement communicated his own confusion.

"We met a few months back on the coast," Kesler said. "Right after you and Royce said their ridiculous Borginian militia would fight with us. They did, for about a week. Then they had a change of heart. Looks like you've had another, if you're wearing black."

The contempt in her voice was real enough, and so was the slight shudder in her arms, the stiff shoulders. There was something else, less obvious, concealed under that disdain.

"Ah," Edward said, interrupting her, "Well, who's surprised? Borginians this far north? I met your boss too. One of my good friends shot him twice."

"I won't deny it," Johan said, completely unaffected. "Most of us came over with Kosra, and now we're stuck here. Look at this place, lady. I know what you did here. We're the same, you and me. Forget the rest of them."

"I don't care," Kesler said. "Tell me where he is now. Waiting on the road to northern command? That's how I'd do it."

Johan glanced at his companion, then back. He shrugged. "Still in that industrial city, as far as I know. That fortress, the one in the middle of the city. They're all there."

"Liar," Kesler said, pressing the rifle's barrel to his chest.

Edward wasn't so sure. He held up a hand, and they fell silent.

"This is not a promising situation for either of you. Why are you here? If you don't have a convincing answer, I expect she'll kill you both," he said softly.

"There's no 'expect' about it," Kesler added. "You want to live? Hand over Kosra. I know he's the one they'll send to find us, and I'm tired of looking over my shoulder every night." She looked at Anya then, and with the same contempt. "And you can tell us where Liebert is. One each, and you can leave alive."

"I'm no liar," Johan said. If the threat of being shot through the chest bothered him, it didn't show. "You're here for him? You've come a long way for nothing." He pointed flatly at the corpse by the door. "Ask the one who got away, then put a bullet in his head when he disappoints you."

It was foolishness. They both refused to stop, to allow a moment's thought, both with that same look of familiarity and contempt. It was a look he was coming to recognise, and so was the shift in Kesler's features. Cold resolve replaced anger.

Rick saw it too, and just as assuredly he'd seen it before. Kesler's finger tightened on the trigger, a movement he'd seen so many times, one ever-present and seemingly easier by the day.

"Wait, I'll tell you," Anya interjected, raising one hand. "This is ridiculous; we don't need to shoot each other over _him_."

Johan scowled at her, as if it the slightest capitulation were a terrible betrayal. But Edward said nothing, leaning back on the wall to watch her closely. There was something unnerving about those ceaseless movements.

"He's not lying," she said, and so urgently he found it difficult not to believe her. "The colonel offered us more money than we'd ever seen to come up here with him. He even told us were all in danger if we didn't leave the city, but most of them still wouldn't come. They're all on the other side of the country. It's like Liebert said, they're just going to get caught and killed."

"This colonel has a great deal to say, clearly, all of it said from some backroom or other. Presumably he wants us found? This is his region, after all."

"He's not trying to capture you, I swear," she insisted. "I don't think it would be good. For him, I mean."

Edward shared a meaningful look with Kesler, then Rick. That, at least, was information they'd been looking for.

Johan took a step back, away from the rifle. "No point hiding it now. See, we were getting ready to leave and Kosra gets a visit in the hospital. That creep, the one who was watching us when their coup went down. He has a word in Kosra's ear, and suddenly the plan's off."

"But Liebert's the head of the military," Edward pointed out. "Surely his request alone, not to mention the money, would be reason enough to comply."

"Don't play stupid, it doesn't suit you," Johan said, his frown shifting. "One in the fortress, one on the coast, both making sure all the pawns do as they're told. They're still doing it. Liebert looks good in uniform, but he's not giving the orders in that city. So, we said, me and her, if Kosra's playing politics, we're done with him. We went to Liebert ourselves when he took the train north."

"You're saying he's in northern command now?" Edward asked.

Johan shrugged. "I doubt it. What do they call it? A factional dispute? Maybe it's just paranoia, I don't know. Whatever it is, it's not pleasant. I'd stay out of the forest between here and northern command if I were you, or the colonel. They have long memories here, he told me. He wanted three hundred men and he got us. Didn't go according to plan, did it?"

"And that's why he put us here. Finally I'm not expendable," Anya said, grinning again. It was as unsettling as before, as if the emotion were real but her expression were artificial. "Who knows? They might even give me a citizenship. Unless the colonel's too stupid to pull this off, but I don't think he is."

"Not if we execute you here and now," Kesler said. There was no spite in those words, nor anything but weary resignation.

"There are worse ways to die," Anya said. "Executed for our crimes, but you're no better than us, are you? Have one of them shoot you while you're here."

"This isn't reprisal," Kesler said. "It's necessity, nothing more."

"No, it's not," Rick said softly. "I didn't follow you here to sit back and watch more of this. Not again. We'll take them with us, at least for now."

He was quieter still, stood without movement, his rifle lowered, and so solemn was the look in his eyes that it seemed peculiar for a long moment. Edward had to look away and back, as if he'd forgotten the man was a distinct entity that could possibly have ever objected.

But Kesler had forgotten. Hers was not the reasoned stance they'd so often seen, nor the confident leader asserting her will, but something else entirely beyond their sight. As she looked at the two entirely unaffected captives it was as if she saw through them, and to some distant place, but the rifle was hesitantly lowered again.

Hurried steps could be outside, and on both sides. A muffled argument began, heard from some four voices. Uncertain and questioning at first, alarmed a moment later, then frenzied pleas for order followed and they came into sight.

There was a terrible risk in these ugly little places populated by people without hope or reason but a rifle on each shoulder and a pistol stashed under every coat. It soon began to seem extraordinary for any meeting to end without death.

Two wore deep black uniforms, fitted for the bitter winter. They were, of course, armed. The other two were former garrison soldiers from Merestan, veterans of conflicts they wouldn't speak of, and decidedly more dangerous.

He stood between them, looking directly at the military police. They were both young, eyes darting between him and the corpses.

"Someone tried to assassinate the provost marshal," Edward said, with all the certainty they lacked. What else could they think? That same man and his companion were at the window and calm, rifles at their back or not. One of them turned the corpse over and saw the deep blue uniform under his coat. That was all it took.

"Was it them?" the soldier asked, looking to Johan. "And who are _they_?"

"Might've been them. Might not. I'll tell the boss anyway. Watch the borders; there might be more waiting. And forget _them_. They're from out of town, and won't be here by nightfall," Johan said. His relaxed words, harsh voice or not, seemed to reassure them.

"And why's that?" Rick suddenly asked, almost incensed. "We're not leaving just yet."

"We've stayed too long already," Edward murmured. He looked at Kesler, who stared back with a strange expression. She already knew what he was thinking.

It was hard not to be impressed, even then, with how well they worked together. The slightest movement, and they were ready. The two riflemen had covered the military police, and Rick watched the other two. Anya in particular, who had taken to staring at him without break.

But one of the riflemen approached him from behind. "Everything's ready for you. The captain's covering us, but we should go while there's still light."

He nearly laughed. "Even now, you still use ranks. Not an easy habit to break, is it? People still call me doctor, but I can't quite remember why."

"Don't worry, we won't be gone long," Johan said, climbing out the broken window. He clapped a hand on the utterly perplexed soldier's shoulder. "Fix that window, would you? I'm used to the tropics, not whatever you think this is. Who decided to build a town here?"

Anya stepped through the window too, and with less grimacing. "This is definitely not a kidnapping," she said, assuring them both. She looked at Edward. "You're not that sort of person, are you? We've done nothing to deserve it." Now it was a smirk, as insolent as could be imagined.

"Watch and find out," he said. He looked at the riflemen. "Lead the way."

They did. As Edward moved to follow he felt a cold hand around his wrist, and so he came to a halt without protest. From the side he saw the two men enter the office, covering their faces from the grim sight within; from the front the others neared the far corner.

"It's this place, isn't it?" he asked quietly.

"I've said that every day for fifteen years," Kesler said. "But I don't think so. It's not here, or anywhere."

It was as she herself couldn't begin to express what it was that was wrong, or why, only that all was not well. Rather, he thought, it was as if she'd only just discovered that perhaps all had never been well.

"They were eager to tell us, weren't they?" he said. "They're on the payroll of the head of the military. All that power, and he wants us to know he's living on borrowed time as much as we are. But why? Can their little alliance really be fracturing in only three months?"

Kesler said nothing, nodding slightly. A light breeze was growing stronger, and a sickly green tinge had crept into the heavy clouds blanketing the north-western sky. He hesitated and tried something else.

"Liebert was the traitor, wasn't he? The one who gave up the northern militias to the military. We both know who would take an interest in that. Is that why . . . ?"

"We deserve the blame," Kesler said, even quieter. "What we did to these people is beyond redemption. Even when they didn't fight we'd just cut them down in the streets. Then we'd pile the corpses and burn them, every time." One hand tightly wound itself around the rifle strap. "Sometimes they weren't all dead. If they knew the militia was nearby they had us do it deliberately, or—"

"How can he justify hating you for their crimes now? After what you've done since, and what he's done since?" Edward said. "It's pathetic. He'll blame anyone for anything, if only it lets him live a while longer. At least you changed for the better."

"Do you blame me too?" she said, so hesitantly he had to pause. "It's fine if you do. All I've done, and the one time I had something to fight for I couldn't do it. It must seem pathetic. I can't stop remembering that day. Every last move we made, nothing but mistakes. I should've seen it—"

"Don't ever think that," he said, so suddenly they both looked surprised. "I'm tired of this ridiculous need for blame. It never ends. If you still see any point left in doing this, throw it away. This is so obvious that woman you nearly just shot could see it."

"I know she could. This is what we do, why deny it? But when they relied on me, when _you_ relied on me—"

"Am I not to blame too? I cringe to remember it too, you know. If all you can see in a misstep is humiliation, you're wilfully blinding yourself. We won't make those mistakes again, and if we do it'll be for better reasons. But no, we'd better shoot each other, and everyone else too. It'll solve nothing, but we can pretend it will."

So abrupt was this tirade that she almost looked taken aback, but it quickly came to an end. He was tired, in truth, and as if it weren't difficult enough to pretend he had any real certainty left, her own steadfast resolve had seemingly crumbled from the inside out.

"I can't argue with you. Not on this. But I thought I'd changed, and now I see myself here again, the same as ever. The military's no better than it was then, but neither am I. It's bitter, I won't lie."

"The reasons are different. Didn't you tell me so? This revolutionary idea, all those people on the streets? Is that the same as helping an invading force exterminate a populace?"

"Oh, there's a difference, but it's not such a great one. Tell me how a social revolution could ever come from a handful of conspiring officers? None of us really knew. It was always absurd, but at least that felt better than nothing. I actually saw Dmitri on the streets that night. He looked better than ever; I wish I could have asked him again."

She laughed again. "I'm sure even now, in that fortress, he tells himself it's all going to plan. Another man would be proud. He forced our country to act like the military state it always wanted to be. I don't know what's worse. His delusion, or Eliza's spite. What else could you call it?"

"What else could you have done? Pretended nothing was wrong for another forty years?"

A look of revulsion broke through her malaise. "I'd have shot myself before that. Some of us did. They don't put that on their recruitment brochures." She let out a long breath, looked aside. "I don't know. People can tolerate pain for years on end, but you won't make it through five minutes without a good reason."

"Is our reason a good one?"

She shrugged. "I don't know if good reasons exist. Only which lie is most convincing. This one's better than most."

"I wouldn't think on it for long," Edward said. She looked up in surprise. "We don't choose what we want, or what we believe. Sometimes you need a push in the right direction, and without it you'll be stuck where you are forever." He gestured at the quiet surrounds. "We'll be stuck here if we're not careful."

"Curious thoughts from a physicist," Kesler said. "But if you're going on to northern command, I'll stay here. I know we can hold up them for a while, whether it's the garrison, or more hit squads, or Harper. You need the time—"

"Would you be quiet?" Edward asked, immediately exasperated. "This is just disrespectful. If you want to stay here and die, feel free, but don't lie to me."

"I could make it work. Fifty men, and you don't need to think about Harper ever again."

"And when it's done? The only hope you'd have to escape is if Jean Liebert himself shows up with a wreath and congratulatory medal for killing his would-be assassin. No, we'll be hijacking the train. Lyra should be seeing to it now, and you'll be on that train when we leave. Our new friends are playing a curious game, and I need you there at its end. Understood?"

He turned to leave with an exaggerated show of urgency, then stopped. "And who's going to manage all these soldiers when you're in the ground? _Me? _Lyra? She's too inexperienced, I'm sure she had to have been Hereson's granddaughter to—"

"Fine," Kesler interrupted. "We'll do it your way, just stop complaining. This is why I prefer silence." But she hesitated again before following. "No, not really. Thanks for listening, Kirk. In my position you don't ever let your guard down. Even when you're alone."

"Especially when you're alone," Edward said quietly. Her look was another grimace, but a peculiarly reassuring one. Another short nod and they were both satisfied.

He left for the rear end of the street again, now mildly anxious about the many other elements left to be considered, but he heard no steps behind and turned to berate her. She looked close to speaking again, but as he met her now composed stare she reconsidered, allowing another half-smile, and on they went without another word.

III

The streets were all but empty, eerily so. The slightest sign of unrest and the townspeople had collectively sank into the earth. It would have been amusing, had he not known how harsh a lesson it must have been, and how with each passing day neither peace nor prosperity looked any closer, but both retreated further into the distant future.

It could become unnerving. The line between apathy and empathy was a thin one, and he knew he was closer to the former. No crimes inspired deep passion in him, nor did he easily see the distinction between one cause and another without peering closely at the details. There did seem to be a difference. If Regina had survived, even she would admit to that, he was quite sure.

That was one way to judge his actions. It wouldn't do to meet her again on one surprising night only to be told she saw not Edward Kirk but Eliza Anders staring out through his apathetic eyes. There was time yet, especially as the winter worsened. Each day he waited for the first of many past grievances to resurface. He recalled Kesler and Johan, each watching the other with contempt. Her day had arrived first.

His was not far behind. There was no question as to whether Harper had died, or whether Eliza might have shot him in a fit of mercy. Give him a hint of purpose to grasp and the man would seize it, pretending he didn't want it all the while. Nor had he mistaken Anya's smirks and hints, or the caution they concealed. As they left he'd seen the pattern in her endless glances. Street corners, windows, the forest, always the northern forest.

His had never been far behind. Whether they would ask for information, or allegiance, or simply blood, he didn't know. The distinction no longer seemed important.

They turned a corner, reached a street blocked on both ends by more armed men, and saw the base of the enormous stone clock tower. A woman waited at its base, clad in a thick grey coat, and with a heavy sniper rifle held over one shoulder. Now this was a sight worth seeing.

"Was your afternoon as exciting as ours?" he called out, pushing all weariness aside.

To his complete surprise, she threw an arm around his shoulder and embraced him, the rifle held in the other hand. It was decidedly harder not to look surprised after that.

It was even harder to not feel relieved. Though he tried to ignore it, he couldn't quite forget that Lyra had thrown away her career and status for their sake, and she and her former garrison soldiers had been essential for each and every plan they'd implemented since. He couldn't ever seem to directly say how he appreciated it, but she seemed to understand that too.

"I thought you were dead, all of you," she said hurriedly, looking between them. "After you went into that office and didn't—"

"But we're not dead," Edward said. "There were a few complications, nothing more. Did the plan work on your end?"

But already he saw it had. At the entrance to the clock tower were two more riflemen, both smirking, and one pointed over her shoulder. Against the side wall within was the last assailant, bound and gagged.

"He ran right up the street and we invited him in. Safer that way," Lyra said. She looked questioningly at them both, that heavy rifle in both hands. "We've done it. What you asked, I mean. The next train arrives in twenty minutes, and they won't leave until we tell them to."

"I never doubted you. See anything else?" he asked, pointing up at the tower.

"A little more, but it's getting hard to see. There are people on the plains south of here, and the military police are gathering. At ten of them, maybe more, also on the southern border."

"And what does Provost Marshal Johan have to say about that?" Kesler asked, exasperation returning as she glanced into the tower.

Inside there were four more soldiers, and more above, but Rick and Johan were sitting around an ugly wooden table drinking some foul liquid. Anya saw them first, leaning on the wall behind, and she waved a lazy welcome with one hand.

"Relax," Rick said upon questioning. "We've done it all, you don't need to panic. Their guys are searching for the rest of our new friends. They were expecting company, and your little scheme lured them out."

"Exactly. We're not enemies," Johan said, setting down his empty glass. "We're not friends either, don't mistake me, but you're not who I was told to shoot. Let's make this easy."

"Besides," Anya added, "we're a little outnumbered."

That was one way to put it. Edward stared at her flatly for a moment. "Be glad you're not bound and gagged like him," he said, pointing back at their less fortunate guest.

"I'm not entirely opposed to the idea," she said, "but this might not be the time."

It was better to forget that entirely, he decided. It was almost a disquieting moment. Each plan had worked, each element was in place, and all that was left was to make something of it. As ever the pieces refused to join together smoothly and had to be smashed into some semblance of the original.

"While we're all here, what did he tell you?" Edward asked, looking at Lyra and Rick in turn. "Liebert's men? Harper's men? Someone gave them an unflattering picture of me."

"Neither," Rick said. "They came straight from Merestan, two weeks past, and they took the road. That's not all. He wouldn't say how many, but they weren't alone."

"Military support, no doubt, if they made it here in two weeks. Private transport is a luxury I can't see them paying for alone."

"They said Liebert's gone back to northern command, and I don't think they're lying. The rest of them could be anywhere," Lyra added, her good cheer gone.

"But to the south, I imagine," Edward finished, looking closely at Anya.

She seemed to understand, somehow, and swept all traces of knowledge from her features, smiling again. "Would you like me to ask him? I'm good at questioning."

"Don't bother. We'll be leaving within the hour, and he told us all we need to know."

"About that," Rick said quietly. "Could I have a word?"

Was there ever a more ominous question? Edward nodded wordlessly, and they went outside again. It seemed warmer on the street than in the tower.

"We can't stay any longer, not if we don't want to see the garrison on the other end. Even if the northern division isn't here, the remnants are still," he began, until Rick held up one hand.

"I told you before, didn't I?" he said, almost apologetic. "I went on ahead, but I promised to meet her here. I'm not going back on my word." He smiled. "Besides. You're not going to raid northern command yet, are you? I'd just get in your way."

Edward hesitated. He was right, but even so, it seemed off somehow, a poor end. Each time, they were swept apart as if inevitable, and he was tired of inevitability.

"You may be one of those peculiar men who can never quite be in the way, no matter how hard you try," he said, looking aside as he did.

That earned a genuine smile, and a short laugh. "Gail never seemed to think so."

"Some might call him one of those equally peculiar men who can never not be in the way."

Rick looked at the far skyline. "It's hard to disagree. The last time we met was under Ibis Island. I joined a rebellion; Gail did the opposite, and the last we heard of Regina was that she was fighting us both. I wasn't even surprised." He let out a long breath, pulled his jacket closer. "We barely knew each other, really. Five years in that job. It's only when it's finished you wish you'd said more."

"Even with twenty years, it wouldn't have changed. Not there."

"That's what I thought too. I don't regret leaving, especially now. I can't believe Regina would either." He hesitated again, and for a long moment. "I can barely believe it. It hasn't but so long, not really, but here we are. I was sure the next time I saw Gail, or her, there wouldn't even be a chance to see if they felt the same. Then I saw you on that rooftop. Right there with the man we blamed for everything."

"It's a dangerous thing to blame the state of the world on one man, whoever he might be. Even now. "

"It's not an accusation," Rick said. "But you looked like you belonged up there. And when we saw _her_, and how the general looked at you, like you had some plan, before they killed him. I was sure you'd stand at her side the same way you did his."

"Not so long ago I would have without a second thought."

"But you didn't even have a plan," Rick said, almost insistently. "How reckless could you be, refusing her? Have you seen what these people—"

"I've seen more than you, and it was still the better choice," Edward said. "It's extraordinary, isn't it? Why do we ever do anything at all? I couldn't begin to tell you, but now we're here, and this isn't so terrible. And I saw both your former partners that same rainy day. They looked quite content."

"Now that I'd like to see," Rick said, with a faint smile. "Gail was a lot of things, but content? And Regina was even less so, but I don't think she ever knew why. At least I had that much."

"Perhaps not, but she was certainly determined to find that reason. Would you like to know a secret? I've never known either. Not really. She was the first to see it. I don't suppose I'll forget that."

Rick said nothing for a long moment. His eyes were fixed on that same distant sky, and the sun was nearing the horizon. The days were growing shorter, it couldn't be denied.

"Wasn't that your dream? Perfect the Third Energy, prove you were right all along?" he asked quietly, his eyes fixed on that same horizon.

"I liked to imagine that moment of validation. The instant it was done, and everything I'd thought and felt would be proven right. Contempt really does make for an inexhaustible store of energy. Better than any of my generators could ever be, really. But now it is done, and that validation is as elusive as ever. I don't mind. The pleasure in a dream is the fantasy, I've come to suspect. If it comes true, well, perhaps it wasn't much of a dream at all."

Rick looked at him curiously. "What does that say for them? To destroy a city, even one you've never seen . . ."

"I expect it would be the most disappointing experience imaginable. That's some comfort, at least," Edward said, glancing at the street corner. "My good friend Eliza is different. Hers is no dream, not really, but she works at it tirelessly nonetheless, and not without success. There's only one alternative for her. Why hasn't she taken it? I can't seem to ask; I think she'd just laugh at me for not already knowing."

"She's just as deluded as the rest of them," Rick said, without hesitation. "Stop listening to what she says and look at what she does."

"I'm not sure the distinction matters. Are you so different?"

"Me? There's nothing abstract about my motivations. I see what's wrong in the world, and I can't do nothing. I see what we've done every time I see Melissa, and so many of the others with us. It has to stop," Rick said. He fell silent for a moment, unable to hide a growing smile. "You know, when this is done she wants me to come see Borginia with her."

"Does she really? I imagine you'll feel more at home there than here. But it's interesting, isn't it? The slightest gestures can have such a curious effect. I myself saw two options, both unthinkable, and then she appeared. A third option, and a firm hand offered from more than self-interest or disinterested spite. What a peculiar third option it was. I've stopped asking why."

"Regina always did have a way of finding a third way out. I know that all too well. Gail never said it, but he admired her for it. We never said anything, not one of us. And now?" Rick said. Though his face was turned away Edward could hear the strained emotion in his words, uncertain for too long. "I don't suppose we'll ever see them again."

"People are always meeting and parting, but we can't fall into despair so easily. Until that night on the rooftop I hadn't seen Eliza Anders for several years. I may never see her again. Who can say? But I doubt it'll end that way, and if that's an unfounded belief, well, it's better than the alternative." He looked back at the tower, listened to the voices within. Despondent or not, it was difficult to say. "Perhaps today is the last time we'll ever meet. It's not so unlikely, is it?"

"We will meet again, and soon," Rick said softly. He finally turned away from the horizon, and his eyes glittered in the evening light.

"I expect we will," Edward Kirk said. He hesitated, tired of so closely guarding himself, and held out one hand. That at least was a memory they could look at without regret.

The hour passed, much of it spent in silence. Near the end they both returned inside with mutual agreement, and the final preparations were made, last farewells said. A familiar sound returned, that of rifles firing in the distance, and the lookouts confirmed the military police had engaged the remaining soldiers from Merestan.

Why they had been sent at all, they had yet to learn. They were no assassins, nor particularly well-armed or trained. Rick assured him that the rest would be revealed in time, especially since he and the thirty with him, and the fifty more on the western road with Melissa, would ensure Johan and his lesser forces did exactly as they desired. And as they would assuredly meet again, and soon, he left it all to them.

Whether Anya and Johan had any affection for one another remained a mystery, but all those disdainful looks and sneers implied some feeling or other. When he said she would be joining them, quite tactfully, no mention of the word hostage at all, Johan had simply looked more disdainful than ever. How could it have been otherwise?

It was only when the train finally departed, its uncomfortably old brakes screeching as it did, that Edward allowed a minor moment of relaxation. He sat on one side, one leg over the over, Kesler at his side, Lyra watching the doors, and the not-quite-captive Anya reclining on the other row of seats.

For some time the only sound, other than the steady noise of the train itself, was Anya's boot steadily tapping the floor. It was less comfortable, Edward thought, or should have been, that he sat in a carriage with three military officials and with many more on each side. This too was becoming routine.

It was understandably bewildering when the rear door opened once more. A single man swiftly entered with the most cheerful smile any of them had seen in months, as if he couldn't possibly be anywhere else. He was quite unremarkable in both height and weight, and every other measure too, aside from the slightest hint of a limp.

Rifles were out again, but the newcomer simply held up both hands and removed his winter coat. Underneath was a deep blue uniform, creaseless and heavily decorated.

"This is unseemly, you know," he said. "Your guards gave me a thorough going over, and here you are doing the job twice. Inefficiency is an ugly thing." Not a single gesture was threatening. Finally he turned to face them, smile still in place, but that smile was forgotten by all present. It didn't reach his eyes, no, but neither did anything else. To stare into this man's eyes was to stare into an empty void.

"This may not have been the best day to take public transportation," Edward said, unable to restrain the slightest hint of mockery. "Should I feign surprise? But why should it be feigned? What a bold move this is." Held at gunpoint on either side, Lyra behind and a now gratified Kesler in front, the officer simply smiled.

"On the contrary," said Colonel Jean Liebert. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be in all the world. May I sit down? Don't look so glum. I've come to save your lives, and my own in the process. What could be more appealing?"


	32. Chapter 32

_Note: My definition of self-contained scene has been smashed again. Even using subchapters this would be outrageously long, and the point of this scene is completely different to the next even if it does follow immediately. I doubt it would seem disjointed, anyway, and that's the only real reason to give half a fuck for the distinction. _

"I do sympathise, but protocol really ought to be followed. We simply can't let you inside without authorisation, or unless you're accompanying someone with recognised credentials."

"They only printed identification in Central, do you expect me to send a request there? And aren't you supposed to be—"

"Yes, really, we do understand," interrupted the unfortunate recipient of this rant, "but it's a new policy. We're all at risk, and we can hardly let just anyone inside, even to the lobby. Now, unless you're accompanied, or perhaps you have a pass?"

He took a moment to glance dismally at the surrounding courtyard, as if perhaps a suitable benefactor could be found concealed beneath the shrubbery.

And what extraordinary shrubbery it was. Carefully planned to fit four gardens, each with its own fountain, within the walls of the southern command centre, this courtyard was known to some as the pride of Polostin, an already beautiful city. It was also entirely empty.

"I suppose it's more than your job's worth to deliver a message?"

Another pained grimace was the only answer necessary. "It's not specifically forbidden, but neither is it allowed," one said anyway, each word slow and measured.

"Indeed not. No, we do apologise, but we'll have to ask for clarification. I assure you: it'll all be clear by tomorrow, or at least the day after," the other added. "Would you like to leave an address?"

"Don't bother. I'll ask someone who's allowed to think," this victim of procedure said, prompting leaving before the urge to insult them further became overwhelming.

This was becoming a pattern. Nobody could deny only the sizeable army on the border stood between them and an unpleasant end, it was true. Nor could they deny the possibility that at any moment the city and its surrounds could be removed from existence in an instant. The usual routines continued nonetheless, but at least they dressed themselves differently, or tried to.

Those especially fond of dramatics liked to say they were all effectively dead. Responses to this were curious, and as varied as were the city's residents. Some insisted it was more important than ever to act as they would at any other time, and especially to guard what was left. Others looked at the world as if a heavy veil had been thrown off, and cast aside both their responsibilities and reservations with it. These were the main ideas, as it were, and neither group quite knew what to do with the other.

A third, and smaller, felt distant from the entire affair. After all, being effectively dead with only a short reprieve between each dull morning and the grave was nothing original. It was rather like being in Merestan again, only now the calm words of Anton Royce and his assistants promised enormous societal change, and perhaps had managed to deliver it in some unclear, uncertain manner.

They still wore blue nonetheless, all except Royce himself. With an existential threat on the border nobody could quite argue against the military keeping an eye on things until the crisis was resolved, or for some time after. Neither could it be denied they were forced to resort to the old rulebook to keep order, nor that when pressing questions arrived, as they always did, it was easier to pull some dusty regulation from the file cabinet than write one anew.

Complaints were heard, but only if you strained to hear them. After all, Eliza Anders and her fifteen or fifty thousand men and their mysterious motives and city-destroying weapons were a larger concern than some minor matter of procedure. It could all wait, or was hardly worth much bother in any case.

Regina, however, was in the third group. Many of her associates were officials, old or new, and more than once she'd been with them and suddenly felt entirely out of place, as if they were all strangers, and the rural city then seemed as unfamiliar as it had the day she'd awoken in a hospital on its shore.

It was still remarkably frustrating. Even the old state military had assigned special identification to military agents. Was Regina her name? It was insufficient, they would all protest, but there really was nothing more to give. Why should the simplest things be so perpetually out of reach? After all, they could always have turned her away _in_ the lobby. This was nothing less than infuriating, and so was everything else.

But it had always been so. She was no citizen, but neither was she anything else. As her injuries healed, which had taken far too long, she'd taken to exploring the city and its many gardens and hidden places to pass the time. Each day they waited for the news that the rulers in Merestan had forced a confrontation, but it had yet to happen except in the east. The stories of that ongoing conflict were numerous and grim.

It would happen, and soon. Or something would, at any rate, but she said little of it. Instead she met people who'd never seen or heard of her, then promptly left forever, and saw Gail and their cheerful if near-disabled escort Dylan Morton less often than could be expected. Royce himself avoided her entirely with more success than he'd had in any of his other ventures.

She reached the arched entrance and another set of guards. The prospect of leaving immediately seemed vile. Instead she resolved to wait for the first official and ensure her complaint wasn't forgotten. Seizing the first bureaucrat in sight and shouting at him was a more reliable path to results than any stack of official papers, nobody could deny. It was sure to be at least mildly satisfying. That alone was more appealing than access to any number of lobbies.

Gail's hesitation hadn't lasted long, it had to be said. Evidently he couldn't help fighting for causes he didn't entirely agree with. He did look healthier, and even spoke from time to time. They were closer despite her own increasing detachment. His renewed purpose was his alone, unfortunately. There were too many days when she glanced at each passing window, startled to see a young woman staring back, or indeed anyone at all.

This was one of those days. Gail had left without warning or notice, and four days was too long when that much travel in any direction would end in a warzone. Was it so much to ask that he stay still for even a moment? She knew him well. If on one day he allowed himself to speak and slouch and not be a soldier, the next he would vanish in some fit of uneasiness.

Why did it matter? She found it hard to say. It was frustrating, or something was, but the source was elusive as ever. Rumination, at least, was a pleasant escape. It was a habit she'd learned quickly, and so well that a passing group of officials, all uniformed, went unnoticed until they'd passed. Only when she glanced back did the chance become clear, the group slipping through each checkpoint without any inspection at all.

The one in the lead looked back too, no less curious. He stared at her for a moment, and so did the rest, and that familiar feeling began to return. She stared back in a fashion that could be taken as offensive, given his position. He only looked more curious.

"I'll see you inside," he said, nodding to one assistant. Most of them left immediately, postures straightened, voices lowered, all for her benefit she was sure. The leader approached with a warm smile and an outstretched hand, and as ever he pretended not to notice her missing finger.

"They wouldn't let me in the office," Regina said flatly, ignoring all procedure.

"Ah, well, there's not much you can do about that," said Mikhail Levin, perhaps the second most influential figure in the city. "I'll have them sort out an exception. It's disgraceful, after all you've done."

Not that he knew any of that. "Three months, and only now you're nervous?"

He shrugged. "Unpleasant news from the border. Raids, skirmishes, all sorts of ugliness. It's a necessary precaution."

"I've never heard that before."

"I said that too, but nobody wants to die at their desk," Levin said, though they both knew he'd said nothing of the kind to anyone. "There'll be no changing their minds now. The east is burning, there's some dismal skirmishing in the north, and at the first mistake these lovely plains will be piled high with corpses. Let them have their comforts."

He seemed rather indifferent to comforts, but it was left unsaid. Levin was much sharper than his deceptively light manner indicated, and for all the protesting he clearly enjoyed his political work. It was impossible to say why, but he stood out immediately in any crowd of officials. Even that was reason for caution.

"Official comforts, even now. Not much of a surprise, is it?" she said, shielding her eyes as they emerged into the afternoon sun.

"No, not really," he said with a short laugh. "You're a cynical one, aren't you? Better you than them." He pointed back at the retreating officials. "Sycophants, all of them, even now."

"Somehow I'm not surprised."

"No, I imagine not. Well, what are you here for? I'll sort it out, whatever it is, or you'll be waiting another month."

"I was looking for Gail. What have you done with him?"

Levin's smile only grew. He looked tired in the sun, she noticed, with dark circles under his eyes and unusually sallow skin. It didn't show in his words, nor his actions, both light and energetic.

"You give me too much credit. Your charming friend does as he likes, whether we like it or not. As for what he _does_ like, well, you'd have to ask Anton about that. It's not me, I can tell you that much," he said, greeting two more guards outside the perimeter wall.

That was exactly the answer she'd expected. These men, wherever they came from, made an art of being both vague and ingratiating. Fortunately this dubious assessment must have showed in her expression; he murmured a few words to the guards, turned back, and smiled again.

"Don't look so dejected. Look, I can be of more immediate use. I'm expecting a train to arrive from the border in about an hour, in truth, and Gail ought to be on it. I hadn't intended to go myself, but I can just as easily take my break in town instead."

"He's been keeping secrets again," Regina said, unable to even feign surprise. "Why not? I suppose I'd be stopped at the door without an escort."

"It's possible, but don't worry. We'll sort it all out." No sooner than this was decided than one of the guardsmen immediately offered his services for the perilous fifteen minute journey ahead. Levin clapped a hand on his shoulder, met his eyes solemnly. "It won't be necessary," he said. "My friend here used to be in a raid team. She's more security than I'm worth."

There was no paperwork here, but it felt as if she was steadily being buried in unwritten procedures nonetheless. Taking the personal assistant, whatever that meant, of the most powerful man in the city at his word was a familiar experience.

At least this visit was an informed one. Mikhail Levin was a career officer, with all emphasis on the word career. Unlike many in the west he'd avoided all suspicion of dissidence, earning promotion to major at thirty for his efforts, until curiously volunteering to join the first wave sent to Ibis Island. There were persistent rumours of some scandal or other influencing the decision, but he'd quickly embraced the revolutionary idea, whatever it was. Despite declaring his love of the people often and with surprising verbosity he still seemed more at home with the bureaucracy. Fortunately that particular skill was in dire need.

And caution was always advisable. Even in the old administration the state itself had seemed perpetually absent, replaced by the whims of whichever bureaucrat was at hand. The individual was irrelevant, powerless, but nonetheless any petty official, usually a military officer, could and eagerly would lord over any particular affair with the powers of a tyrant. Many orders were simply forgotten, Regina had come to suspect. Those that weren't, no matter how outrageous, could be forced through or alternatively buried for all eternity, but only ever after the official at hand gave his learned opinion on the matter.

This had been apparent enough even when there had been officials in loftier places than the regional command centres. Unfortunately the prospect of relaying orders to Central, and back, and likely back several more times, had been so tedious that Central had never quite lived up to its name. It was rumoured that western command had been unable to even contact central command if it was raining, so poorly maintained was their communications infrastructure. Nobody was surprised to hear this rumour. Equally unsurprising was that the local officials, ministers and officers alike, had been quite fond of this state of affairs.

What was Levin's official position? What was Anton Royce's? Half the city called him a colonel, though Regina's own recollection indicated anyone at the head of an army that size really ought to be ranked lieutenant general. But he was respected far more for this complete disinterest in legitimacy; in what served for society they looked on it with approval.

Flagrant disregard for legitimacy had always been a reliable source of respect in Alvernia. To the last Hereson had insisted he was only a major general, whether the other generals reported to him or not. Even then, in that time, their official adversary called himself a colonel too under equally ridiculous circumstances. Indeed, it was rumoured no general would ever accept the promotion to field marshal, all no doubt fearing their power would wither away if the prospect of formal autocracy was pulled out from under the bed. No revolution would do away with that, nor the file cabinets filled with forgotten orders.

Their leisurely stroll finished with much too long left to wait and they ended in some bar or other, a rustic place that smelled of old leather with not a single other patron. This had been entirely anticipated, but Regina said nothing, indulging him in polite conversation for some time. It was a relief, in a sense, for her leg often ached even if the wound was healed.

Only once it was established that they were both reasonable and understood the necessity of pleasantries did the topics began to shift. A slow descent into politics was inevitable, they both knew, and the only reason either of them had bothered to be there at all. It was the first time they'd met alone.

"I'm surprised you can find the time," Regina said, gesturing at the quiet surrounds. "What did you say before? Raids and skirmishes, and here you are wasting time with me."

"Wasting time? If I panic my guards panic, and my advisors panic, and before long everyone's terrified. The truth is, I could spend twenty hours a day in that office and we'd be no better off," Levin said. He drained a glass of some colourless liquid as if solely to make this point. In a moment of exasperation she realised it was water and poured herself the same to spite him.

"So we're no more doomed than usual?"

Levin looked taken aback, but still smiled. "Oh no, definitely more doomed than last week. Or not. It's hard to say. You know the supposed commander, I presume?"

"I know of him," Regina said, though even that was a stretch. "Comes from the north, known for caution and surviving purges? I'd never heard of him. I suppose that's a worrying sign."

"So you'd imagine. And here he is on the road to three wars at once," Levin said, throwing up a hand in a show of incredulity. "Or not. No doubt he does as he's told or he'll be thrown off a wall, but someone has to lead the siege, and by all accounts our dear Colonel Liebert has fled north.

She chose the most outrageous reply that came to mind. "So strike first. They'll come for you anyway."

He took the opportunity to pretend she was serious. "They already have. Raiders behind our lines, some militiamen or other. It's a torment, it really is. Why not burn us off the map and make it a kinder end? At least with Hereson we knew what to expect. Now we don't even know _who_, let alone _why_."

"Why would he go north?" Regina asked suddenly, ignoring the rest.

Levin took a moment to think that over. "Some sort of ugly infighting between locals and the garrison, or the military police, I don't know. At least we had the sense to go south for the winter." He cut himself off and looked at her curiously. "But why should you care? Friends in the snow?"

She pushed the barely touched glass of water aside. "Must have been some uprising if they sent the figurehead to sort it out himself."

"Who knows? It makes my life easier, anyway. I doubt the army will move while he's away."

"I'm surprised it's even your problem," Regina said, though without much enthusiasm. "But it's probably another trap. They're good at those."

"Everything's my problem now," Levin said, a slight frown growing as he spoke. "But this is no lie. I have friends in Merestan, and they saw him board the northern train in a hurry."

"Seems like you're wasting time to me," she said, though that wasn't her actual opinion either.

"You make it sound so easy," he objected, glancing back at the door. "I could make it happen, true, and it could happen whether I like it or not in any number of ways, but how do I know it's the right move?"

"You'll never know," she said, now hearing his gloomy tone in her own words. "Not before or after, or while it's happening. If that's a problem, get Royce to do it instead. He never seemed to care."

"Oh, he cares. Even knowing the rest, we all saw it and dutifully followed. Some for better reasons than others, it has to be said. Tell me: Is an aimless decision worth any more praise than no decision?"

"I suppose it depends on the motives."

He seemed especially pleased, especially since she didn't ask for his. "Exactly. Ignore the hysterics and Merestan's the same miserable place it always was. Miserable, but a fitting capital now the old one's been thrown away. But what do they actually _want_? This can't be it." He was looking intently at her, with uncharacteristic seriousness. "What do you think their next move would be?"

"You've taken a wrong turn. This is a bar, not a war room, and I'm no strategist."

"There we disagree. You were alone with two of them for months, and where they turned on us, you didn't," Levin said, and that seemed too close to an accusation to her; the pleasant mood was fading once more.

"They're deluded, that's what I think," Regina said, unable to hide her impatience. "You took Mirzin's job, right? How do you remember him?"

"I don't, really. Most of the time I avoided him, except for the occasional visit. Political work."

"I saw him oversee more executions than I could count. Roads choked with corpses, and he was sure it had to happen. Now I wonder: from the first time we met, did he know that was coming?" She held up one hand, not wanting an answer. "I know: appearances rarely show the whole truth. Whatever they're doing, they'll still gladly die for it. Will you?"

"Do I have a choice?" he asked, as inexplicably irritated as she was.

Regina stared at him for a long moment, her ire fading as quickly as it'd appeared. "You already think you've lost, don't you?"

"What else can I think? A larger army, better commanders, a manufacturing base, and this _weapon_. We ought to scatter in all directions, that's what I think, but how can you say that?"

"Have you said this to Royce?" she asked quietly, almost entirely still.

"Do you want to know a secret?" he said, leaning in closely. "He's not even here. He left with Gail four days ago. They'll be back, but what difference does it make? My advice isn't wanted there."

It didn't even come as a surprise. He saw it, eyes narrowing slightly, then leaned back in apparent exhaustion. Had it been of importance Gail would have told her; as he was to return that day she assumed it wasn't. But the secrecy was tiring, and it showed. Perhaps it was this shared exasperation that calmed his suspicions.

"Listen," she said suddenly, "I never knew what their plan was, and I wasn't much of an officer either. Royce just said I was, and that was it. Why am I here?"

"You were none of those things," Levin agreed. "I was a major, and uninvolved in this mess, just like you. Then they took me to that island. You know the one. I know you were there, and I know you're hardly here now, drifting from place to place with that helpless look about you. I see it every night in the mirror."

"How many thousands saw that island? I'm not unique. Why don't you go find one of them instead?"

"Because they didn't see what we saw," Levin said softly. He glanced over at the door again, as was increasingly common; even the barman had seen fit to disappear. "They used the island as a staging ground, but so few of us were allowed to see what was hidden beneath."

"And what _was _underneath?"

"A great maze of steel and light, winding through endless tunnels, each part connecting to form an incomprehensible whole. Something beyond description." He paused, gesturing at the surroundings with distaste. "After a lifetime of this, I can barely believe it was real."

"There was nothing extraordinary there," Regina said firmly. "It was cold and sterile and not much else. But even if I'm wrong: if Borginia can build these places while we live in squalor, use your position to change it. That was the idea, wasn't it?"

"But Borginia _didn't_ build this place. I read the literature, I saw each and every blueprint. Anton knew the entire time, and so did your friend Rick, but they wouldn't tell us," Levin said, almost in a frenzy. "We had to know. _She_ had me do the work, you know. Gathered it all up, said we had to find out what they were hiding from us."

"You were used. It's not the first time it's happened, or the last."

"I always knew, in a way. And if I didn't then, I certainly did when I saw the eastern sky burn. Shame it was too late to go back."

"So go back now. Take your fleet and shell that island until there's nothing left. Or forget it entirely; you'd be better off that way," Regina said. She stood up, sure only of the urgent need to leave, seeing the familiar gleam in his eye, but he grasped her arm with one hand.

"He's alive, isn't he?" Levin said urgently, and at that she held still. "The magnificent man from these journals survived all this time, and they had a second generator. But where? I need to—"

"You're mistaken," Regina said, pulling herself free. Even the implication seemed vile, and all thoughts of leaving were forgotten. "There was no _they_. There was a second generator, and it was stolen from us. I doubt it's still functioning."

"It can't be so," Levin said softly. "They said if we sailed within a hundred miles of Ibis Island they'd use it on us. Here. If it's a lie, we can't ever test it. The navy would sail off and never come back if we even suggested it."

All professional dignity was fading, and his sallow skin and tired eyes came to the forefront. It was impossible to feel contempt for him. Even that was tiring, but for her instead. It would have been much easier if he'd stayed a lofty authority figure or descended as an object of suspicion, not this murky state between.

"I can tell you where to find it, but you'll never make it back there alive. After that, do as you like. It's not my responsibility."

"What if I could find him?" he asked, almost insisting. "What if I told you he's why a northern town was torn apart by skirmishing three days ago? Half their leadership is there, and what could else they be looking for? Tell me what else it could be."

Frenzied implorations or calm appeals, the delivery was forgotten, and irrelevant, for the door was no closer than it had been at his first word. Levin saw he had her attention nonetheless and seized on the opportunity.

"Why won't Anton speak of him?" he asked, speaking faster than ever. "Who is this . . . this corpse, this dead man? Without this we're finished, no matter how many of you pretend it's not true."

It was clear, despite all his frustration, that she could leave without another word and he would make no move to interfere. She didn't. Too many had made the same appeal, whatever their reasons, but only once had the vision came to life. Despair had done what curiosity couldn't, and it could easily happen again.

"I've heard this line twice before, and don't need to hear it from you," she finally said, turning back with all reluctance. "It's easy enough to imagine your dreams coming true, but what do you do once they have? Forget the Third Energy. Don't pretend it'll get you out of this mess."

"But if we found him," Levin said, as if he hadn't heard a word. "If we brought him back in secret, held out on the border until another generator was ready—"

"You can't be this stupid. The last thing the Edward Kirk I knew would ever allow you to do is make the same mistake a third time. Understand? Find your salvation somewhere else."

Levin said nothing for a moment. His feverish manner was cooling, features forcibly put back into something resembling a smile as she watched.

"It's not just a dream," he said quietly. "I told you I have friends in Merestan. They looked for the corpses, his and others, and they were never found. They're still looking. Shame that's all they've found. But if not this, then what? I can tell you, we have _nothing_ else."

It was difficult to respond to that. To know what to think was difficult enough, and there were many responses, instinctual and reasoned, most discarded, all concealed from Levin. Was it such an unreasonable belief? No such mercy as she'd received on that bleak night would ever be found at Eliza Anders' hands, it was true. Why did the mercy need to be hers?

Behind every name of note a legion of supporters and enablers could always be found. That night had been no different. Faceless officers and unknowing pawns gathered together as they had surely been: how could such company have seen the reckless malevolence that radiated off that woman when her mask was thrown off, seen it next to _him_ as he had been that morning before, and still not understood?

It was impossible. Impossible to see what she had, the transformation in Edward once the boot was lifted from his back, even the decency in both Harper and Mirzin and others on that miserable night, despite all their attempts to crush it, and still think that all she could expect from others was cause for despair.

"It is possible, then," Levin added softly, as if he hesitated to interrupt her thoughts.

"If you wanted to find him alive, I think it would be." She watched him for a moment, and as before she found nothing contemptible, but it became clear. Even at his most energetic there was a calm look about him, almost calculating, that he couldn't entirely conceal.

"You're sure he would never help us?"

"Not in this. You think he's alive, on the other side of the country? I doubt he'd even go with you."

"Not after what we've done, you mean?" Levin said, a wry smile growing as he spoke. "My predecessors have a great deal to answer for, clearly." He hesitated, almost unsure, and reached into his pocket, retrieving a small card and pressing it into her hand.

"Oh? What's this?"

"Your pass. You'll need it at the station, but show it to anyone and they'll make all sorts of assumptions. Don't give me reason to regret it." He paused again, still hesitant. "You've been, well, not lied to, but mislead might be closer—"

"This is a bar, not the office."

To Levin's credit he looked suitably abashed. "Look, I'll tell you why they're out of the city. There might not be an invasion, but we've been losing men and supplies to raiders for a month. We do not have men and supplies to lose, especially not to foreign mercenaries. Not when they're this close to the city."

"You know they're foreign? How?"

"The report on my desk said so. But forget that. It's the closest to combat we've seen, and you're not supposed to know. After all, you distanced yourself from military life, so it wasn't a _personal_ decision, but—"

"It's fine. I expected as much. Military secrets, and I'm not in the military," Regina said, though in truth it was slightly uncomfortable to admit.

Only a moment of hesitation and the faintest hint of an idea held back the conclusion of this irregular meeting a moment longer. Levin saw it, waited with a curious look. The prospect of being back of the street with nothing changed, only worthless authorisation to await the return of a man who didn't need her concern, had lost its appeal.

"There is something I can tell you, if you like," she said, still hesitant. "But tell me. The first time both Gail and Royce leave the city we conveniently meet outside southern command. Coincidence?" It was a simple test, both of character and intellect.

"No," Levin immediately replied. "I had you watched for four days so this could happen. Plainly you know much more than I do. You've told nobody, have you? Not all of it. I need to give you a reason to tell me."

"At least you admit it. Well, here it is. Just don't get too excited. These raiders? The leader has all the information you want and more. If you kill him you've wasted the best opportunity you'll get. I mean it. These guys were here even before the uprising. I know it's them."

"But they will kill him," Levin murmured, sinking into thought. "And I do mean _will_. Everyone's competing for Borginia's favour. That's twenty years of progress for you. Unsurprisingly the people who can make their islands vanish have the advantage. You know, I don't think that's really why Anton insisted, but it'll end the same either way."

"Then stop them," Regina insisted. "She _trusts _him. Do you know what that means?" It seemed of the utmost importance. Everyone she knew had vanished; if not for the scars the past months could well have been a dream. What relief was it to find a tenuous friend here when the rest slipped away piece by piece?

"What do three hundred men matter now?"

"It's not about the number." Urgency was again turning to irritability. "It never has been. If you don't see it yet you really are lost. Find the militia leader, they call him Kosra, and bring him back alive. He'll be worth more than a thousand corpses."

"I'd do it in an instant if I could, but how?" Levin answered, equally annoyed, though seemingly not with her. "They'll surround the next town and burn it to the ground with their militia inside. Believe me, whatever Anton's faults, he's done this before and done it well. And with your friend with him? They're already dead."

"Then why did you even bring me here?" Regina snapped, finally losing her patience. "Clearly all we can do is sit back and watch. It was easier when I didn't know."

Levin said nothing for a long moment. It was perhaps disadvantageous to treat such a notable personage so roughly, but he hadn't protested. And, after all, this meeting was clearly held at some professional risk to him anyway.

"We both see why I need this information," he murmured, almost to himself. "But you? What should it matter to you?" No answer was forthcoming, but he didn't seem to need one. "No, I think I see. I spent all that time buried under an island; you were _there_ the entire time. It would be a personal matter, of course."

"And it isn't for you?" she retorted, perhaps too quickly. "You don't mean to tell me you're the first officer I've met who actually cares about your career?"

"I could tell you that. They put me here because I'm useful, not because they like me. And perhaps if I'd staged this rebellion I'd have done it differently. I'm only invited to half the meetings, you know, but we do need a reasonable authority figure."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" Regina said, but her irritability had faded. "Well, go on. No more avoiding it. Tell me in your most blunt manner: what do you actually want from me?"

"You know, that's the trouble. A lot of people flooded into this city, but the only one who can't blend into the crowd is you. Not that I've stared excessively, you understand, though it wouldn't be difficult; you've attracted more attention than mine. Look, I've just embarrassed myself with half an hour of feverish ranting for a reason. You won't be impressed, but I don't just _want_ your advice. I need it on this, and more. Think of it as a consultancy, if you like."

It was impossible to hide the instinctual grimace, though it wasn't intended for him. "I'm not sure my help's going to make much difference. Even if—"

Levin held up one hand. "It's an offer, not an order. I do things differently, if I can, even if it's not worth much. Keep the card, whatever your decision. I'll do what I can about this militia business, but they'll just drown me in paperwork until they're all dead anyway. Go to the station yourself; tell Gail why it's important. He'll listen to you, and Anton will listen to him."

It was hard not to laugh at that. Levin saw it immediately, wincing. "It's more likely than if I try it," he said, though without much enthusiasm. "If you need anything else ask me directly. I mean anything, and I mean me. Nobody else can know."

"Anything?" she repeated, with the same uncertainty. "That's a lot of favours you're offering. How much difference will this information actually make?"

"More than I can say. Gail and Anton can play border defence all they like, but it _won't work_," he said, more insistent than ever. "We need information, not corpses. But you'll see when you reach the station. They didn't listen to me on that either."

"It's absurd, isn't it?" Regina said suddenly. "We cut the government down to a tenth of its former size and all the same problems are already back."

Levin just grimaced. "What can you expect when the day after the revolution the same old faces are back in the same old offices?" He waved the question off entirely, smiling again, if bitterly. "Take my offer or not, I doubt it'll make much difference. Nothing ever does."

Regina pocketed the card, and even returned the smile. "The smallest things do make a difference, whether you see it or not. Thanks for this, and I'll consider the offer."

"But you do want this?" he asked curiously. "I won't take the risk unless we're both convinced it's necessary."

This was familiar, for all its innocence. A blunt question would never be asked, but she saw immediately a blunt answer was all that would keep him from vanishing forever. "Yes, I want this. You should too. For answers, and because I'm tired of . . ." The words refused to come for a long, frustrating moment. "Haven't you noticed whenever they say something's necessary it almost never is? It's just ridiculous." That wasn't quite it either, but he at least seemed satisfied.

"Touching sentiments, no doubt. For my part, it's all as I said. I was outvoted on almost every strategic decision and never did like being replaced. This may still be considered as subversion. More likely it'll come to nothing. Go and meet Gail, and we'll see from there. The risks are all mine anyway."

"It'll be a waste of time, but I'll try it."

"And I'll still do what I can to find this extraordinary man, whether he'll help us or not. If he has survived there's a decent chance he's not alone," Levin said, offering her his hand again. "We won't leave them up there to die in the snow."

Regina shook his hand again, this time with more warmth. "I'd keep that quiet if I were you. Even as a rumour, it's dangerous."

"Every rumour is dangerous now. I'll see you soon, I hope, and good luck to you."

As she reached the door it was difficult not to feel some relief at the turn in events, and in both Levin's cheerful outer façade and inner despair being misleading. She was quickly growing used to seeing beneath exteriors, and this man was no Mirzin, full of obfuscations and lies. Peer under his fabrications all you like; the truth would be as obscured as ever.

Kosra was not one of those men either. He was driven by bitterness, she was sure, and for clear reasons. What couldn't be justified by twenty years of resentment? Yet where had he been? Not on the coast, or the streets—that had been clear. The only answer was in western command, at the side of a woman who couldn't easily defend herself. Taken to murder a general and his men, and meet with this notoriously deceitful Colonel Liebert. He could have been nowhere else. He would know what the others hadn't.

It was only after the door was opened and the afternoon sun flooded into the bar again that she was given reason to pause one last time.

"There was something else I can't help but wonder," Levin said softly, still obscured in the shadows at the bar's far end. "The man you describe would never follow us here. Not me, a man he doesn't know; certainly not Anton Royce, an old enemy, and not for politics either. It begins to look as if this is the last place he would ever come, doesn't it?"

"As I said," Regina replied, not turning back this time. "You can look if you like, whatever your reasons, but I don't see it happening. Not if he's survived three months alone."

"I imagine not. But now I wonder: would he come back for you? Or will you tell me you parted on poor terms after surviving all those months together?"

The door was closed a moment later, and a long breath finally let free. "No, I wouldn't tell you that," she murmured to herself.


	33. Chapter 33

How could the tranquillity of that rural city be denied? Standing there in the afternoon sun, it was impossible to see it in any other light. For all the clear evidence of unrest it remained as calm as ever, and seemed destined to remain so until well after each of its inhabitants had turned to dust. No other conclusion could be admitted without faltering; its inherent ridiculousness would simply be too self-evident to ignore.

Regina didn't deny it, but neither did she pay it the slightest attention. Lovely scenery and tranquil surroundings had their time and place, much like everything else. This was neither. Heavy thoughts and a looming decision forced on her by the peculiar man on the other side of that door were to blame. What did it mean? To her, to him, even to the thin stream of pedestrians winding its way across the other side of the street. They wouldn't know, likely wouldn't care, and so she stood alone and watched as they passed. Not a single guard could be seen either, as far as she could tell.

This had surprised more than one visitor to the city. After all, they reasoned, the military was enormous beyond imagining, had itself firmly rooted in every part of society, and yet whether in Merestan or Polostin they always seemed terribly undermanned. It was as if they expected a guard by every door and any less was deemed a sure sign of collapse. Curiously enough, nobody ever bothered to verbalise these complaints.

It was only a surprise to those who hadn't been in the ranks. Perhaps one in every ten who wore the blue carried a rifle and would routinely be called upon to fight. The other nine were swallowed into the eager ranks of the bureaucracy the day after training. Few ever realised how much work it took to put that one in ten on the field, or how many of the remainder filled their time with the administration of factories and the mopping of floors and the careful filing of countless papers.

It could be argued this was by design. Not very persuasively, it had to be said. No, it was a military above all else, undeniably, but neither could it be denied that for many it essentially performed the role of a civil service, only with greater scope. That, at least, certainly was by design. Even there they were undermanned, she was coming to realise. Not all ridiculous beliefs were immediately apparent.

It was fortunate for the soldiers in question, or so Regina had always privately thought. Never did it seem harder to justify existing than after eight hours standing next to some door or other for no discernible reason, fully aware each day for the foreseeable future would be the same. Half her rationale for tolerating the SORT lifestyle and its shameful mortality rate had been the guaranteed freedom from standing next to doors. Deny it though they would, the others had been no different.

And who didn't need to believe their life was meaningful? Rebellion against futility was half the reason the countryside was littered with corpses, she was sure, though even that had an uncomfortable feeling of inevitability about it. What could an individual ever change? Flawed though it was, the appeal of the military stemmed from that sense of shared purpose. Recognising it provided little comfort. The familiar suspicion that everything around them in all its splendour was little more than a distraction, and a pitifully inadequate one, remained the source of her agitation.

Unfortunately the solution was as elusive as ever. She was only sure that it was there, and that thousands more were moving to one end or another, each sure their path was chosen and rational when more likely it was neither. Gail had been resigned to this for years, it seemed to her. They were moved in a certain direction whether they liked it or not, but however they came to be what they were choices always had to be made. Those, at least, could still be influenced, and Gail's were of more consequence than most. Explaining that to him seemed as impossible as ever. Would Anton Royce respond any differently? It was doubtful.

Not that the colonel had any intention of seeing her again. Three months, and not one meeting. Oh, he was busy, he was here, he was there, he was with Gail until well after midnight on some alleged matter of strategy, though he'd officially renounced all such roles. Those particular rumours were unavoidable even in her state of isolation. It was enough of a relief to know Gail had been so well received; she was quite content not knowing all the details. Her own treatment was almost insulting, though perhaps Royce had renounced interrogations too. More likely he preferred to pretend she didn't exist for his own peace of mind.

And that was entirely fine. If Gail was comfortable with this place and these people, Regina was content not to speak one word of complaint. It was a sentiment that had never been expressed, but it seemed ridiculous to deny it then, alone on a sunny sidewalk. It was completely true that Gail was so withdrawn it began to resemble illness. They were close despite that peculiarity, or even because of it. The military had made that inevitable, though it had been completely unintentional.

It had never been said, especially by him, but there was only one plausible cause for the subdued informality that defined their relationship from the first day to the last. From its inception he had done something, broken some protocol or other, and all for her benefit. That had been her suspicion from the first.

It wasn't a difficult mystery to solve. Alvernia was a bastion of legal equality. Everybody was firmly placed on the same standing, it was known by all, with the admittedly unfortunate exception of the subdued northerners. But nobody cared about them. This had been a genuine point of pride for many years. After all, their diplomats would smugly point out, who else dared take this principle as far as they had? It was hard to deny, especially since that proudly diverse army did most of the negotiating for them. Even in the infantry, they would exclaim, anybody was welcome, and they meant it.

It was therefore a complete coincidence, undoubtedly, that after peering past the diverse ranks of the enlisted and the lieutenants and captains you would find the demographics increasingly skewed in a certain predictable direction. Who could protest? The regulations were there for all to see. Each candidate was taken as a nebulous entity defined only by their record, their simpering voices would protest, firmly shaking the rulebook as they did. They meant it, too, and could easily be imagined cradling that book as they slept. And it certainly couldn't be denied that a reputation for complaints did no favours for that all-important record, though of course the appropriate forms were always waiting if needed.

This had been especially true in the SORT offices. Merit was the word of the decade, but even the pitying eyes of the creature who'd handed Regina her application made it clear she was wasting her time. Even after surpassing most of the other candidates in their equal class of equals, it was obvious. Gail said nothing of it, appearing the living embodiment of procedure. He was the only one not to show surprise when she was accepted, in his own team no less, instead sneering as if she should have done even better. Said or not, the veil of formality had been splintered from the first day.

Standing there on that street, it was finally beyond doubt. Colonel Anton Royce, Gail's best and likely only friend of fifteen years, though she hadn't known it at the time, had ultimately approved each successful candidate. Whatever was hidden under that cold mask of his, it wasn't procedure or a long list of rules, but inner conviction of the sort he'd followed tirelessly for a lifetime without once speaking of it. No, Gail could be forgiven more than most, and for all his attempts to hide it Regina was convinced he was one of the most ethical men she'd ever known.

Only after she left the street entirely, headed further south, did she bother to glance at the pass she'd been given. It was a familiar template, all but certainly retrieved from a dusty file cabinet, but still left her rather surprised. By orders of an office few would dare refuse, the holder was to be guaranteed entry to a long list of worthless places. It wasn't so surprising, given Levin's desire for her to assist him in his undoubtedly difficult business.

It was an offer that had to be considered carefully. Clearly Royce had said nothing, and so she was the logical next source for forbidden information. At least he didn't bother pretending otherwise. His epaulettes were even more reason for curiosity. Evidently he wasn't an army officer at all, but a rare representative of the naval infantry.

Even so, he hadn't overstated his offer. He didn't need to. The personal staff of perhaps the most senior bureaucrat in the city, unless of course they were all burned away overnight, said it all for him. And for once as one of the nine in ten, not the outsider valued for her aim. Not that she was fit for combat, or had any desire to fight in any army again.

It hadn't been said, not even to Gail. It was admittedly easier when missing the most useful finger and recovering from severe injuries, but she'd sworn off soldiering well before that, or at least a week before. What a poor effort it would be if Edward Kirk was alive to meet him in a deep blue uniform, rifle back in place. Why did it even matter? They were all soon to die. Even if not, the question wouldn't leave so easily.

But it did seem important, and if anything had to be important it might as well have been that. Levin's offer couldn't be called a military role, not as such. She imagined defending herself on this technicality, perhaps showing Edward the line in a thick tome of laws that proved she really wasn't so detestable while he stood there after a year in the northern wastes. That at least brought a burst of laughter with it. Two women across the street looked at her very strangely, it couldn't be denied.

As expected the two guards standing outside the railway station, and more notably the one manning a mounted machine gun on the rooftop, looked both tense and wary as she approached. This station was for military use only, though such security was seen anywhere of even slight value. Isolated violence was a favourite tactic of their enemies, all knew, and so nobody complained.

All was forgiven when they saw that little card. They looked at her in a familiar fashion then, much like all the SORT agents had been looked at, though it began to feel uncomfortable. She met the man on the left's eyes, insisting she was nothing of the sort with her own, though the idea of being ordinary was only appealing in a terribly superficial sense. She hoped he understood that too. But it was immediately forgotten on both sides. The spacious interior, bathed in the afternoon sun from high windows and predominantly built from some sort of blue stone, was as occupied as ever. Occupied and unnaturally quiet.

As she emerged into the station proper the reason became clear. A sparse crowd was gathered, most in small uniformed groups, some still exiting the armoured train. Many were sprawled out against columns, the sickly smell of sweat and smoke and worse lingering in the cool air.

Her entrance was barely noticed. An anguished cry from the far end broke the near silence, but barely anyone bothered to look. Again, the reasons were clear. The worst of the injured were kept in that corner, descended upon by medical teams, and the smell was foulest there.

For a moment it was difficult to do more than observe. Training and instinct and too much experience had left their mark. Once it had seemed a point of pride to have such composure in the face of death. How had it been so? She looked between dead and dying, those wounded in body and mind; this reaction was no more a choice than hysteria was, but it was equally difficult to change.

Two men watched her pass, both standing protectively over another missing half an arm, and she felt nothing. Another was intact, but stood unnaturally still in a corner only to suddenly turn his vacant gaze on her. She felt nothing. More passed, too many to count, all observed from that detached place. Some were even recognised, if vaguely. Only when she reached the train did the purpose behind the observations return.

Gail was nowhere to be seen. Had Levin lied? It would be a clumsy lie if he had. But that was forgotten, because with the observation came a surge of panic, something alive and vivid, and she pushed that stupor aside and joined the others frantically searching for lost friends.

She soon realised what felt so out of place. This was a fraction of the train's capacity. Immediately she assumed the remainder had been killed, though it was a completely unjustified assumption. That seemed irrelevant. It was absurd, and vile, and memories of three months spent with a chance to correct some fraction of their past errors utterly wasted were all she could think of, that and the uniforms on all sides; surely he was impossible to overlook.

But the miserable search yielded results inside the train. A quick flash of Levin's card and the guards vanished from existence. There was a figure in the shrouded interior, much taller than the rest, clad in simple black and grey, and panic was replaced by relief for a fraction of a second; it could be nobody else.

The one guardsman, reclining on a row of seats, thought otherwise. Eyes widening, he leapt up in surprise and Regina seized his rifle in one hand. The left hand, she reflected with some satisfaction.

"I didn't think your manners could get any worse," she said, throwing the rifle aside. "Leaving to get shot without a single word, Gail? I shouldn't have expected anything else." A quick flash of Levin's card put an end to this guard as well, one who already looked unnerved by her outburst.

The shrouded figure gave no response at first, but his composed posture seemed to slump slightly. The guardsman gave her a telling look, all hostility forgotten. It went unheeded, no instructions came, and so he shrugged, retrieved his rifle, and retreated to the door.

The illusion was broken. "I told you, didn't I?" the other man murmured, still nearly motionless. "Take care outside the company of those proven to be trustworthy."

"If only you'd taken your own advice," she retorted, perhaps too hastily.

"If only I wasn't too stupid to take it properly" Anton Royce said, turning back to face her. He couldn't hide the lost weight, nor the tiredness etched into every movement, but seemed almost more imposing for it.

"Don't expect me to disagree," was her only reply. The urge to leave on some pretext became immediately appealing.

"I wouldn't ask you to," Royce said. His pale eyes met hers, but were drawn to her hand. "I wouldn't ask anything of you again."

Despite this comment he seemed reluctant to address her initial outburst, by far the easiest way to put an end to this mutually undesired encounter. Neither could Regina manage to ask directly; asking anything of him seemed equally distasteful.

Instead, inexplicably irritated by the staring, she held out her right hand. "Because of this? Don't look so upset. I'd be no better off if you hadn't sent me to that foundry."

"I find that hard to believe. You were close to death when you arrived, it seemed to me."

"You were only willing to see me when I was unconscious?" she said, unable to hold back a smile. "How could I regret it? When we met I felt like I was nothing next to you. You practically ran that city, had thousands of us under you. What were we compared to you?"

"You've changed your mind, evidently."

"It's hard to be as impressed this time, I admit. And you actually do run a city now. Or you're a pretty figurehead, anyway."

"That's closer to the truth. Look around you. No man has ever _run_ a city. The illusion is a useful one for all involved, but not much else. Individuals are easily substituted for the will of thousands. Don't believe the lie."

"It's a shame, don't you think? One man can't run a city, but now he can wipe it off the map easily enough."

"Only if every other man in his path stands aside and does nothing," he immediately replied, evidently unable or unwilling to resist arguing.

"You should know. That man worked in your office for about three years. Someone had to sign those pardons. You even had two foreigners commissioned. The same way you made it happen for me, right?"

"Should I have known then? Could I have seen?"

"Let's give it some thought," Regina said, making it clear no such thought was needed. "Half an hour after I met your Major Harper he'd already cut someone's throat. I didn't even need to see it. None of us did. You could see the spite in him the minute he walked in. What's your excuse?"

"It was a calculated risk. We needed men like him, and he needed us."

"What a load of shit," she exclaimed, knowing how dire that could be, unable to care. "This is how it happened. One day your genius transfer officer came back from that disgusting subjugation with her new pets and needed a favour. You just nodded, and there she was with . . . with who? After what happened there you wonder why there are men like him?"

"I wasn't aware you knew about that," he said, quiet again.

"I know _everything_," Regina said, genuinely surprised. "I know what you've done, and I know none of you had much choice, any more than we did on the ground. Do you think I could even look at you now if I didn't? But you had to have seen what they were. You want to talk about inevitability? How didn't you see that city was falling apart from the inside out? The people I saw on those streets were never just going to wait for you to _order _them to rebel."

"And what alternative do you think I had?" Royce said suddenly, now sounding irritated. "It's easy to despise them now, isn't it, but you said it yourself: what choice did we have? They couldn't wait, and we couldn't move a moment earlier than we did. That was how it had to be. But take a moment and _think_. Not once did I ask Gail to join us; I knew it would ruin him. Those officers had one thing in common, and it certainly wasn't my friendship."

There was a look in his eyes then, almost amused, and for the first time he didn't sound bored. She gave it all due thought, seeing his seriousness. It seemed almost too obvious. "Other than you and Kesler they were barely sane, as far as I can tell," she said. "Is that why you went for Kirk too?"

"Yes, him too, at least in part. It was a remarkable collection of the most miserable people I could find. I'm convinced, even now: as it was, given ten years every one of us would have shot ourselves," Royce said. His tone was becoming uncomfortably light, as if they were discussing the weather.

For a moment Regina just stared at him. It was completely unexpected, but not surprising in the slightest. Then came a sudden burst of laughter, but it was his turn not to be surprised. "You're a genius, Colonel, and I didn't ever realise," she said, putting an end to the laughter with difficulty.

"Who better than those who find society intolerable to overthrow it? Their agitation was simply redirected to a more productive purpose."

"But what did you actually achieve? And how do you know it was society that made them want to shoot themselves? Maybe they'd have done it anyway."

"I was counting on it," he said, smiling inadvertently at her look of surprise. "Obviously it could only be after their parts were played. I expected Eliza would do it first, after we done dismantling our military state, and take her pet Harper with her. Dmitri too, although I was never sure with him. The rest of us wouldn't, I thought, when the source of our misery was removed." He finished his recitation with that same dead smile fixed in place. "Now infer a meaning from that, if you would."

All traces of humour were gone well before he finished speaking. As the months passed his imposing manner and reputation had faded, dulled by failures and betrayals, but it became clear how this had been achieved. His reputation had never been built on strategic prowess. Even so, he'd always gathered the necessary support without difficulty. Not only that, but as she saw it he had identified and subsequently manipulated the desires of those around him with considerable success throughout his entire career. It was instinctual, she thought; he would do the same to anyone in an instant.

"You saw what they were all along," Regina said quietly, her eyes fixed on his. "They were your closest friends, and you didn't just _think_ they would shoot themselves, you were relying on it. And if they didn't? You'd have done it for them, wouldn't you?"

"It had occurred to me. What good is someone like Eliza to any society? She's _inherently _miserable; what can be done to relieve that?" He shrugged, as if expressing regret. "Charisma, intellect, even beauty: she has all those and more, but she has no use for them. Now see what they've wrought. To tell thousands their contempt is justified, not just now, but always? You can say it was inevitable, but without her we would have given that sentiment a worthwhile outlet, not _this_," he finished, waving at the surroundings with disdain.

"Merciful, is it? I'm not surprised." She held back from saying more. It was, after all, a conclusion she'd expressed to Harper even under the knife. But there was something loathsome about it nonetheless, and even more when said in his curt words.

"No, you're not. You saw what they are for yourself, perhaps more than any other. But this isn't your concern now. They've made it a military affair."

"Why didn't you see it?" she said suddenly. "If you knew all that, to even take that risk . . . "

He understood immediately. "After our exile Eliza's sanity, such as it was, deteriorated rapidly. It gave way to sadism and impulsivity, barely restrained. That lowered morale considerably, and what could be worse in a revolutionary force? Her influence over the men was finished, either way, and without that she was harmless. Perhaps it was all feigned, just an excuse to leave that island alive. The people were already prepared for immediate action, as the defection of the ceremonial guard made all too clear. It was perfectly timed on their part. "

"You think Mirzin's little trick was bad for you," Regina said, unable to hide the bitterness.

"But even he understood what I didn't," Royce pointed out. "We planned for a specific series of events. This happens, and then this follows. They always knew it all depended on the readiness of the masses, soldiers or otherwise, and moved what truly _was_ inevitable to their benefit."

"And you thought you could move the entire world to fit your own preferences, I presume?"

"So all military men are taught to expect. The general gives an order and it's fulfilled to the last letter. It's a lovely thought. Never works that way in practice, but we can always hope, and _always_ take credit."

"A lovely thought," Regina repeated. "You know, I can think of one positive here. Gail's not as stupid as that. He didn't even bother trying to order around four of us, let alone half a country. At least you're not wasting his time."

Royce seemed to find that terribly amusing. "As you say, I was stupid. And arrogant, I admit. The masses starved, they rose up without us, and all that time we really did hope they would wait for the order. Why was I surprised that Liebert's men did what we wouldn't? If he refused they'd have shot him and rebelled anyway, no doubt. Either way, his soldiers were ready for treason and even entered the city on the best pretext imaginable. And after _that_ they only went for a military coup anyway, whatever they say they're doing. My mistake."

"You forgot the foreign support. Seems like you forgot just about everything, actually."

"Not quite. Neither did Gail, who I regret to inform you won't be back for some time. This Borginian leader as good as gave you this, didn't he?" he asked, gesturing at her hand.

"No, not at all. He was there, but—"

"My mistake. I may have said otherwise to Gail," Royce interrupted, smiling apologetically.

"Why? You wouldn't even know," Regina said, looking at him strangely. "This is the first I've heard about him leading again. I know he did for Hereson, but that was it."

"He insisted. I wouldn't willingly put him in harm's way."

There was not the slightest hint of trust left for this man, not for her, and each word was scrutinised carefully. He did have genuine affection for Gail, so openly shown nobody could deny it. That could easily be all that was true.

"What did you tell him?" Regina asked, hearing the exhaustion in her voice.

"Only the truth. That this foreign murderer is Eliza's most reliable killer, that he knows all our and her worst secrets, that he knows about the Third Energy, that he's truly allied with the Borginian military, though that's only a rumour, admittedly an unlikely one. Oh, and that it was he who murdered James Hereson at her request." Now he sounded bored again, and looked it.

"How do you know any of that?" Regina demanded. It could have been true, certainly, but in her experience if all that could be said for a claim was that it _could_ have been true, it was almost always someone's carefully built fabrication.

"I have been reliably informed. You understand. Unfortunately Gail feels he failed James, even now, and has wished this entire time to rectify this failure."

Levin's sources had evidently missed that briefing; he hadn't mentioned a word of it. She definitely said nothing of that.

"I could believe you," she said instead. "Whether it's true or not, I could believe you're doing this because he needs the closure. But I don't believe it. Why don't you just take them prisoner instead? He will if he hears it from you."

"Unfortunately I would never make such a request. It's hardly even possible, and the men need progress, not more decisions they don't understand. But it's not your concern, really. You elected to live a peaceful life." He smiled again, this time reassuringly. "This is no risk at all. Not for him."

"No," Regina said, more softly, "I suppose you wouldn't risk your favourite man. I've seen . . . but forget it. You won't even consider it, will you?"

"Three hundred prisoners," Royce answered. "We haven't the supplies, or the men to guard them, or the ability to let them go free. We could question them, but why? Foreign mercenaries picking the rotten flesh from our bones: do they deserve mercy?"

"Do you think they're all here for money? More than half are here for crimes I _know_ both you and Gail remember. Now you're going to finish them off. In twenty years, is that all—"

"And what crimes are those?" he said, suddenly cold in both tone and manner. "Don't be so quick to speak of what you can't understand. Which memories torment you as you struggle to sleep? I won't presume to know. Give me the same courtesy."

"Then why did you even bother? Your men wear the same uniforms, work out of the same buildings, and you're still shooting people for nothing."

"If you have some affection for this militiaman I apologise, but he and his three hundred have sided with the most reprehensible forces on the continent. You are one of the few to understand even in the slightest what they have done, and what _we_ have done. They'll die here, now, and take their secrets with them."

"So that's your motivation?" she said, unable to hide a look of loathing. "Do you _still_ believe you can just kill them all and pretend it never happened? And what about the Third Energy? Is that going to be a myth when you're finished? The city that disappeared in a single night, a story to scare the dissidents. I can picture it now."

"You've developed a flair for the dramatic in your time away. You've kept your secrets too, I've noticed, since your return. And why? I haven't asked. Nor have I needed to ask. Neither of us like it, but we both see the necessity. This too is necessary, and so is the rest."

If it wasn't obvious before it certainly was then. Nothing had been gained and nothing would be gained. Underneath slipping composure burned the same feverish helplessness she'd seen in Levin, but it would never be relieved by any words. And what was worse, she genuinely could believe Anton Royce found what he did and said detestable, and perhaps had once preferred to shoot himself than continue as he was.

The titles had changed, the offices were repainted, and the enemies weren't faceless and distant but the closest of former friends. The resurgent glimmer of hope had been overshadowed by necessity once more, a looming spectre which eagerly justified every thought and act on request as it always had and would.

Fever was quickly turning to anger. It was impossible even to despise this man, to paint him as more than he was. She turned to leave without another word, having the foresight to know she'd say something regrettable if she dared speak again. Instead he spoke one last time.

"Just one moment, if you would. I enjoyed this, or at least found it interesting, but I do have to ask how you passed the security teams. I'd prefer to avoid a quiet death at my desk. Or in a train carriage, for that matter. "

"I spent five years avoiding security teams. Yours aren't bad, but could use some work. Sorry. Old habits are always hard to break."

There was another long moment of silence. "They are indeed," Royce said softly, nodding slightly. "If it's any consolation, when Gail returns I'll have him sent straight to you. His shameful manners are perhaps the one thing we can agree on."

"Anyone could agree on that. Thanks, Colonel, or whatever you are. I won't make a habit of sneaking past your guards."

"I'd appreciate it. Good luck to you." The dead smile returned, as did the uncomfortably light tone. "But would you like to know something else? Mikhail wasn't one of my chosen few. He joined us after a curious incident with his wife. It ended in two broken ribs for her and a visit from the military police for him. I suppose he appreciated the change in scenery. Well, that's all forgotten now, and he certainly couldn't interest you, could he?"

It took every last piece of willpower, experience, and forethought in her power to respond to that farewell with only a nod and a look of slight confusion. Anton Royce gave no response, that same detached smile fixed in place. She was gone a moment later.

The guardsman eyed her off again, even more curiously, but said nothing, and when she returned to the platform another long breath was let free. This time there was no relief; the urge to break something was overwhelming. Strong emotion didn't come quickly or easily, but this had been building for months, even years, and finally there was nowhere left to turn to evade it any longer.

Instead she sank down against a column, shouting at no-one, breaking nothing. It would be pointless. And that was the entire problem. There at last, in that beautiful old city, she finally found the freedom always held just out of reach. No obligations, no name, no purpose, perhaps four left in half a million who could recognise her on the street. All of these were free to be defined at will, they always said, but it didn't seem so to her.

What was left when the pretexts were taken away? For a moment she wanted to ask one of the soldiers, one of those half-dead men forcibly held off from joining the relief forces. She didn't. Royce's words refused to leave her mind. Was she chosen for her connection to Gail, or for the same foul reason as the others? And what did it say for her that when presented with an entirely new life, even a new society, she was as listless as before, if not more so?

The motivations she'd been given were gone, and there was nothing beneath. That was the unpleasant truth. And what were the alternatives? A quiet death in some filthy corner, whether in one year or fifty? It was impossible not to scowl at the thought. But that was what Harper was, by his own admission, and even his response. Apathetic, ruined, and filled with revulsion for the world and everything in it. He too had been chosen. Nobody could pretend Eliza had needed him, though they all did anyway. The reasons were never what they seemed.

The last of the supplies were loaded as she watched. Royce's words still refused to leave. Was his cynical idea the most that could be done? That people were to be used, given the opportunity she had then, then abandoned or worse if they proved unreliable? It came as no surprise that Edward was likely both alive and active as ever. Yet he was one of Royce's chosen few, so often compared to the most hopeless case of them all.

It hadn't been a quiet death in a corner for either of them, but a fevered descent into aimless contempt and misplaced violence. Royce himself had suffered the most for their callous treatment; combined Edward Kirk and Eliza Anders had torn his intricate plans to pieces and burned the remnants. But who could deny that on the last day Edward had seemed far from violent or contemptuous, and that he had honestly thanked her for her treatment of him, trivial though it always seemed?

If it had been true for him, even then, then was she so different? Why bother imploring both Levin and Royce on Kosra's behalf? A man she'd known for one night, an enemy, and all for his moment of mercy. Or was it the information he alone would have and all its many implications? Neither seemed entirely true, but neither could be rejected. It certainly wasn't born from spite, insignificant though it seemed, though neither could she identify any other cause.

That small desire was there nonetheless, as was the resulting motivation. She had seen what a glimpse of what was admirable; it was worth following until utterly exhausted, and until even Anton Royce's most loathsome revelations left no impression. She slipped inside the carriages again, not even needing the pass, determined to find Gail herself. He would listen to her for the first time. It didn't matter what was said, only that for once he stopped hiding the most admirable part of himself, even if only for a moment, and—

But she wasn't alone. There in that dim carriage, filled with cargo and little else, the smell of dust heavy in the air, was someone else trying in vain to slide through the crates. Instinctively she reached for a weapon at her hip, but there was none, and hadn't been for months. Finally the intruder found their way to the wall and flipped a switch; the carriage was filled with faint light.

That intruder breathed a sigh of relief. "Twenty minutes and we'd have missed you," he said, though he was clearly gasping for breath. "Look, whatever it is, going to the front lines is a bad idea. You're not going to make me follow you there in this condition, are you?"

This intrusion seemed the most inexplicable thing imaginable; this man's existence had been forgotten entirely as that wretched day progressed. Hadn't he been sent away? What could justify this? There he was nonetheless, and exhausted, all medical advice thrown aside in his haste.

"What are you even doing here?" Regina exclaimed, not quite sure as to where 'here' referred to, but all the more insistent for it. "And you've been running? In your condition? How stupid—" The sound of more movement from the rear door put an end to that outburst.

"I said that too, but he insisted," Mikhail Levin said as he clumsily slipped through the door. At the sight of him she stiffened in place, unable to hide a flash of caution. He noticed immediately, expression becoming clouded.

"Forget that," said Dylan Morton, still worryingly out of breath. "He said he sent you here. Gail's not back for at least a week, I had to tell you, but I didn't want you to run into Royce like this." He gestured vaguely, but seemed almost abashed and said no more.

Despite all the questions it raised, Dylan's presence almost seemed less surprising than Levin's. He knew nothing but compassion and drive, was the sort of man who would willingly be ground to dust for his beliefs, well-founded or otherwise. If anyone had to appear, it was easier to tolerate if it were him and his simple concern, always present, and for everyone, than the rest and whatever they wanted, sure to be the last thing they would ever admit.

That was a needed reminder, and any ire reflexively directed at Dylan was forgotten. Instead Regina turned on Levin. "You _knew_ he'd be here," she said, almost in a whisper; she rarely raised her voice even in anger. "Did you think that'd be funny? Tell me you didn't know and I'll give you good reason to be honest."

Dylan's expression darkened at that; immediately she was glad for his presence, though by then he was leaning on the wall of the carriage for support. Levin's rueful smile survived her accusations without the slightest change. As earlier, he defaulted to absolute honesty.

"He refused to meet you in person," he said, calm and reasonable as ever, even shrugging for effect. "You seemed equally unimpressed with him. I told a small lie; now you've seen him, and he's seen you. Safety and satisfaction are by no means synonymous, and you're not satisfied. Tell me I'm wrong. After that I'd be ever so grateful to know what you learned."

"Are you sure you want to hear it?" Regina said, looking at him closely. Again, he noticed the implication but made no reply. "That's a nice slogan, I admit. What would satisfy _you_? Letting Royce boss you around isn't doing it, I can tell. What's the alternative? Ideas he might not agree with?"

"Only if we determine it to be necessary," Levin said, answering for them both. "Intentions alone don't rebuild societies. I can picture it now. We take back Merestan and end up in the same offices with half a country burned and nothing to show for it. Is that so unlikely?" He waited a moment; neither of them contested the point. "So what now? Do we let this opportunity go to waste? Trust solely in his pride, his ambition, and pretend it's all beyond our control?"

Whether that was his sincere belief or not, Regina couldn't tell. He was a convincing speaker, it was hard to deny. Softly spoken, never uncertain except for effect, and on occasion genuinely motivated by conviction. Royce's words had poisoned her against trusting him, or anyone, though she tried to shake them off. Dylan agreed in full, she instantly saw, and without any duplicity. Was it so unusual? Many in the ranks had lived in poverty, had joined the army only to escape the factories. He was one of these men, she could see immediately.

She had never considered herself a member of any society, though it was true: hints of more had been seen then promptly stripped away. A hand had again been stretched out in solidarity, though not the hand she wanted, but was it ever so? It wasn't the right time or the right place; indeed, it was harder to recall a less certain time.

"How much influence do you actually have, Levin?" It was another test, but this time she didn't know the answer.

"I'm an administrator in a city where most of the administrators were either stripped of power or executed," Levin said, giving it careful thought. "As it is, any decision worth mentioning is signed off by either me or Anton. Nobody else has the authority. That's one way to look at it."

"Stop being vague. Can you give a general orders? Can you tell the fleet what to do? Can you do anything without them checking with Royce first?"

"If that wasn't possible I'd hardly have bothered," Levin said softly, gesturing between the three of them. "I'll tell you what I'd like. I'd like to show the people that we can do better than Anton Royce's word alone. Let's not forget: this is more than an army. They agreed I was the only one fit to oversee the city and their reforms. I intend to do just that, and well, but I can't do it alone, and I can't do it under these conditions."

"And you agree with that?" Regina said, immediately turning to Dylan. He was almost breathing normally again, but seemed to suffer more from frustration than pain. "He's not lying? He's not manipulating you?"

"I don't think he is," Dylan answered, with that same perpetually calm look. "I'm used to following orders. I can give them, too, but I was never trained for this. What if he's right? What if we do survive only to look back and realise we've achieved nothing? What if it goes wrong? Have you seen what poverty and starvation do? I have, and I won't let it happen here."

"And if you're wrong? What do you do when your interests and his differ? You'd be in front of a firing squad in a second if he said so," she said, speaking rapidly, unable to calm the rush of thoughts.

Dylan provided all the gravity needed. "I'd see it coming. It's not hard to see what a man wants, and when he's going to turn on you." He hesitated, visibly uncertain. "I thought I saw it on Ibis Island. Lieutenant Colonel Anders made requests of us both," he said, gesturing at Levin too. "Secrets from the colonel. She had him do her research, and she had me let a prisoner take an unloaded weapon. There was more, but . . ." He trailed off and said no more.

"Then why didn't you tell anyone?" Regina demanded. The rush of thoughts was growing; the urge to start speaking, and keep speaking regardless of subject, had to be forcibly suppressed.

"I didn't have the chance," he said softly, touching his chest with one hand. "After what we saw that night . . . but I was in the hospital for too long. I wouldn't have survived at all if we were here. They sent me to the Borginian fleet for treatment after they came to terms. When I made it back she was already gone. "

That put a sudden end to her feverish manner. Dylan was sure of himself, true, more so than he had any right to be, but it was said with such an air of humility. It was familiar. This was Rick's friend, after all, and that was easy to believe. But it seemed to her that Levin too was familiar. Each word was measured carefully, and what he said was never quite what he meant. She didn't understand him, didn't trust him, but she was sure there was something familiar and even agreeable underneath that guarded stare. He clearly shared her own uncertainty in a way Dylan never could.

That was what cooled her anger, not any series of hasty explanations. They hadn't been asked for, certainly hadn't been expected, but there they were nonetheless. What was worthwhile? Nobody ever seemed to know. Gail knew with certainty for himself, on some level. That was clear. But it was for him to know, and for him to understand. What had adopting the causes of others ever done for her?

Her own life had been a series of unsatisfying experiences, one after the other, culminating in months spent living on the streets with dangerous fugitives, tortured and beaten and half-dead at the end. Pity and caution were the usual responses, and she hated it. Then why did it seem, even then, that only in the middle of that horrifying ordeal had she seen a glimpse of genuine satisfaction?

It couldn't be explained. That ordeal was painful beyond all else she'd ever endured, it was true. It was equally true that now, with it finished, that for all the pity and comfort given here something infinitely more satisfying had been lost in the transition. They had all seen a glimpse of it. Even Harper, who forced himself into one wretched act after another in the hope of validation, even that poor woman who'd watched helplessly as he ruined himself further each day, right to her last; even Dmitri Mirzin, so utterly convinced every act, no matter how callous, would be justified by the righteous conclusion he was sure was coming.

Above them all was the one who'd tried to murder her long before the others, and with such dispassion as Harper or Mirzin could never have, though in truth even that had only concealed the most terrible of inner torments. Edward Kirk was unlike anyone she'd ever met. The slightest glimpse at his solemn features and it was clearer than any truth. And in turn he was the first and last to ever attempt the same for her, to look beyond the countless externalities that left this one woman in that peculiar position at that particular time. That tentative understanding, whatever it had meant, in all its forms, was more valuable than anything else twenty-five years of searching had uncovered.

There was a hint of it there too. There was a weariness in both of these men, indescribable but comforting to see. Was it shameful to want companionship? It still seemed so on some latent level. But there was a path worth experiencing, she had to believe, and neither the peaceful retirement nor any other life on offer here was it. Dylan was murmuring one quiet argument or another, she realised, and Levin dismantled it in his usual calm manner.

Something else became clear. She would never be able to speak to Gail on any meaningful level while their relationship was defined solely through hierarchy and a sense of regretful pity. How could they ever meet as equals in actuality, not only as stated in the rulebook? Running to the battlefield with a petition in hand suddenly seemed repulsive. It would simply inspire more pity. But there were always choices, few though they seemed, and with this purpose in mind, and others, many scarcely understood, some were clearly superior. Whatever they were debating was immediately deemed of the most trivial importance, and she had it brushed aside in an instant.

"If I said I knew how we could keep their Borginian militia alive even if half the army does want them dead," Regina interrupted, willing herself not to hesitate again, "what would you do?"

"I would say," Mikhail Levin said, commendably not surprised in the slight, "that unless we really do want to murder the only source of information on offer, we ought to listen to your proposal." He looked at Dylan. "Would you agree?"

"You knew I would before you brought me here," Dylan said, unable to tolerate even that minor piece of deceit. He looked at Regina, solemn again. "I've seen Borginia, and its people. They've done nothing to deserve this. Even Kosra, and even after all he's done. It all comes back to us, and I'm tired of it."

"You just want to know if your friends made it out alive," Levin added, though not unkindly. "No, I won't joke around. Dylan here's becoming a real pacifist, you know. Doesn't think anyone deserves to die. Well, I won't deny it: whether they deserve it or not, I don't want them dead. Anton thinks the opposite, and he's got his reasons too. What a pain. Everyone's always convinced what they're doing is necessary. Why don't they ever listen to _us_? But that's how it'll always be, and we'll just have to put up with it."

"This is necessary," Regina said firmly, to solemn nods from them both. It was done. They left the station moments before Anton Royce and his reinforcements departed for the border, returning to a small estate, recently appropriated, near the walls of the southern command centre.

The rest of the afternoon, and much of the night, was spent there in deep discussion. When the sun rose again they'd slept little, but for the first time in too long each of the three felt they better understood their situation, and perhaps even what ought to be done to improve it. Regina had to admit, at least to herself, that for a time it almost seemed a secondary concern. There was a glimpse of purpose again, more tentative than ever, but it was shared purpose, and of her own choosing. That was more of a relief than any series of justifications.


	34. Chapter 34

It was nothing less than negligent to allow any meeting of note to progress without ensuring the appropriate conditions were in place. These conditions were subtle, ever-changing, but without them the entire affair would fall apart in an instant. This was intuitive, or should have been. It had not been so for Edward Kirk, and any developments made in this sphere had been earned only through the most tedious labours.

The same could not be said for Jean Liebert. It was certainly possible to survive two purges and a foreign invasion through luck alone. Even rising to lead that same foreign army through the most outrageous circumstances could be attributed to such. It could not be said for him. How should a man be judged? The impulse to measurement and evidence was an easy one for Edward, a scientist before all else.

Liebert needed no such evidence. He was one of those rare men who both adored intrigue and possessed the ability to see with inexplicable accuracy, though never quite certainty, what ends could eventuate from any situation and how any of these transient possibilities could be brought into reality. Looking at him then in that dimly lit carriage, the fading sun obscured by heavy grey-green clouds, it was hard to believe. That was almost certainly intentional.

His uniform was impeccable, though out of place in the anarchic world he himself had had such an instrumental part in building. Both his height and weight were so unremarkable it almost seemed uncanny, and he looked no older than forty, though it couldn't be denied that he was approaching fifty. His smile was only ever polite, never condescending, but never much else either.

Even with a rifle pressed to his back and stomach he acted with courtesy rarely seen in any society, though a slight accent gave away his true nationality. It only added to the charm. If not for the eyes, a mild brown, he would have appeared the most impeccable diplomatic figure any of them had ever seen. Those eyes were empty. Devoid of feeling or not, it would be an obvious misstep to assume he wanted nothing. He was one of those singularly confident men who could always say what they wanted. Naturally, as with all but the least shrewd of such figures, he rarely ever did.

"I was told to expect a rather dour figure," Liebert began, brushing aside both rifles to take the seat next to Anya. Nobody bothered to pretend he was facing immediate execution. "Insufferable, in truth, though even that could only be said of your better days. But here we are, and what do I find? Youthful energy, an enviable smile; even a private carriage, a sure sign of success. You've kept these three lovely ladies for yourself, I see. Nobody would dare pretend they'd have done otherwise."

"It had all the makings of a promising evening, it has to be said," Edward answered, giving a slight but purposely noticeable nod to Kesler and Lyra. The former took her seat again, as was appropriate; the latter returned to the door. "I've also had a rather tiring afternoon, and clearly there won't be any rest now. Your timing is atrocious. Expect our ire to be demonstrated in the next half hour."

"Ire? I've seen nothing but ire for a lifetime, and I'm afraid this isn't it. Northern hospitality can't be beaten, I've always said, especially when you make your visit a peaceful one, though nobody ever does. Go on. Tell me you've been poorly treated."

"I can't help but admire the resilience of your countrymen," Edward said, allowing a faint smile. Liebert immediately returned it. "Years of repression and the only man of substance they've produced came back wearing an exquisite blue uniform. They must have loved that, Colonel."

"We both know the alternative," Liebert said, as if reproaching an errant child. "An unmarked grave for me and exactly the same for them. What difference can a corpse make? Less than a colonel, but I'm afraid even he has only slightly more influence than the corpse. One man is rarely worth mentioning."

"Anton Royce would disagree. But that's a gloomy way to look at the world, don't you think? Let's say you're right. All that would mean is that you're in this for the luxurious lifestyle and officers' pension."

"Anton Royce thinks his ideas can change the world. He never bothered to ask _how_, but he did make a lot of noise and that's always something," Liebert said. He shrugged as if conceding a point. "As for me, you may be aware I've been asked to assume a general's duties by our beloved benefactor. What a remarkable woman. A general can do even more than a colonel, you may be aware."

Up until then Kesler had wilfully ignored him, but she couldn't help scowling at that. Lyra looked positively nervous, if it could be believed. She usually did outside of combat. It was a truly perplexing condition, almost endearing, but likely to remain unsolved.

Edward couldn't help but stare at him. Daring to demand answers would lead to those answers being locked away forever, he was aware, and no amount of rifle waving could undo that mistake. No doubt measures had been taken to discourage them from that method, and as he met those dead brown eyes it was clear neither of them wanted to take that route. The answers were coming nonetheless, and he found he was coming to enjoy the experience of extracting them.

"But you _aren't_ a general," he pointed out. "Just how many men do you command, Colonel? More than our idealistic Colonel Royce? Enough to give us sleepless nights, certainly."

"Well, that's just not right," said Colonel Liebert. He leaned back in the seat, adopting a mortified air. "How can my dear friend Eliza expect me to command her eighty thousand in this deplorable position?" He ran a hand through his hair, glanced at the strangely still Anya on his left, then back at Edward. "Do you truly think I should be a general?"

"Eighty thousand, you say?" Edward said, though it seemed to him the number was exaggerated. "Yes, I suppose you should be. I can't be bothered negotiating with anyone as lowly as a colonel."

"It'd be an insult, I agree. What do you say? I'm a general? Yes, all of you listen carefully. I've promoted myself to general, and let nothing more be said on the matter," said General Liebert. He leaned forward again, put a hand on Anya's knee. She hadn't moved since his arrival. "That's power. And what you have now is power too, Doctor, three hundred men or not."

The point was incontestable. Edward paused again, but he knew his evaluation was incomplete. This wasn't the prelude, and it wasn't done from modesty or caution. Every last gesture was deliberate, and Liebert wasn't just skilled at this. He enjoyed it to such an extent that taking this risk, whatever he was doing, could be justified solely by the satisfaction of the experience itself. But the justification was unnecessary. He was there for a purpose, no doubt, and it wouldn't be the one he would declare.

"Is there anything more useless than a general without an army?" Kesler asked. Harsh manner or not, it was rare for her to sound so openly scornful. "Who's commanding in the east? Not you. And on the southern border? If you dared to move those divisions they'd have you shot in the street. Or is that why you're here now?"

Liebert leaned back again, allowing the lightest of sighs. He shook his head, then looked back at Edward. "She's not like us. A major at thirty-nine, was it? Taken off the career track when I was but a civil servant in a foreign land," he said. "Poor diplomatic skills would explain it. Well, it would, but I'm aware there are other qualities they liked in the senior staff you'll never have." He looked at Lyra with more sympathy. "Nor you, my dear, capable though you are."

"Just be quiet," Lyra said softly. She really did seem more nervous than ever, but met his eyes without flinching. "And stop pretending you're any better than us. You were the most cowardly officer in the entire army, everyone knew it."

"You mistake me," Liebert said lightly. He still addressed her with more respect than he had for Kesler. "I've never been a sexist. Your mighty Alvernia has a superior military and an inferior culture. It's not my fault they preferred a foreign man to a local woman." He turned to Anya. "Please, defend me. Three against one is too much, I'm afraid."

"I met you two months ago," Anya murmured. Her prior vitality was well and truly gone. "Are you a coward? I don't see how you could be. A sexist? How would I know?"

"Well, I'm convinced," Kesler mocked. "If I was motivated by the pension like you I'd have stayed out of Royce's office. Nobody in there was ever promoted."

"I couldn't agree more," Liebert said, all else seemingly forgotten. "Our dearly departed General Hereson once told me of his attempts to reform that ugly bit of culture. More hopeless than any campaign, he said. I wasn't there at, err, well, _the end_, but I can imagine his look of disbelief. Murdered by one of the women he hoped to save from obscurity. That was always irrelevant, unfortunately for him."

"You really do talk too much," Edward said, in the most bored tone he could manage. "I'm beginning to see why she's fond of you. Once the cold veneer slips off that woman can speak for hours, and how many can endure that?"

"You're not entirely wrong," Liebert agreed, smiling again. "But you speak as if what's under the veneer is unappealing. The men in the ranks aren't fools. They know half this excitement was conjured up in that peculiar mind, and they like it." He paused for effect, waiting for the looks of disbelief. "I tell you, they do. Are you so surprised? If you are you mustn't know your countrymen half as well as I do."

In truth Edward couldn't bring himself to disagree, frustrating though it was. The numbers were too large, tens of thousands here, more there, and too abstract. All he saw were rifles and uniforms. What else could he have thought? A lifetime spent in isolation, among the intelligentsia at one point, the military bureaucracy at another, never with the masses. The three hundred with them were all dissidents, hardly representative of the average man or his thoughts. Liebert knew all this, and he continued without an answer.

"Here's my opinion as a foreigner," he said softly. "Do you know why we were so afraid of your people? We were, you know. Forget the obvious question of military supremacy and tell me why." This time he did want an answer.

"It seemed inevitable, didn't it?" Edward ventured. His combative tone had lessened. "There was nothing you could point to, no singular face to blame. From the first day to the last there was only that sea of uniforms, and we all know what they did. We had no lawful claim on your land. Some suggested your people were inherently inferior, I recall, but nobody believed it. It had to be done, for one reason or another. That was all we knew."

"Dour, but not dull," Liebert said, nodding in approval. "Nobody knew _why_, or if there was a final purpose, but you all came nonetheless. Even at the end, nobody quite knew. As we agreed, one man is never worth much bother, but if he, or she, can impart their most precious ideas to the sea of uniforms, well, that's another matter entirely."

"And she's done that?" Edward asked in disbelief. "Your eighty thousand will be rotting on the plains if she has her way." He waited for a response that didn't come. "Tell me it's not true. They'll burn it all down if they can, and for what?"

For the first time Liebert's amiable manner faded. Nothing could be read from his blank expression, but he seemed to measure his words carefully. "There is a certain feeling. Haven't you noticed? When you sink to the lowest, the worst depths you possibly could, only then it appears. For a moment, however brief, you feel alive, and some of us are always harder to satisfy than others."

"That's your idea, I suppose? Or were you told this?"

"Oh, no, it's my experience and my description. I doubt it's hers. I've done things which are best left unsaid, even here, some of which you likely know. I don't regret them. I would have done more if I could have escaped unpunished. I may still be called to account for those crimes, but Eliza will never be punished. She can't be punished."

"You can imprison anyone," Kesler said. "I expect you'll both understand that before long."

"You can't punish her, I tell you. Even if you tore her plans to pieces, beat her brutally, threw her in a cell, I doubt you'd find a moment of satisfaction in it."

"You can prevent prison suicides, I'm aware," Edward pointed out, though even if that question was raised he doubted he would do it. Imprisonment was detestable to him, as were its implications.

"It would make no difference," Liebert insisted. "Whether it works or not she'll be validated, and won't long outlive it either way. Don't you see what this means? The soldiers finally have someone who they can respect, who they can see doesn't _rule_, despite her being an autocrat in all but name, but lives and dies for the same reason they do. That feeling of unity is indescribable."

"This devotion is surprising. I was under the impression you were the sort of insect who looked for his own survival above all else, as if from instinct alone."

"Oh, it's not devotion," Liebert immediately clarified. "She's brilliant, but destructive to a fault. I enjoy living, at least on my terms, and how many of us can say that? Now if I'd been stuck here I might have chosen the rope too, but this is much more to my liking. Too public, it has to be said, but that's hard to avoid. Better a safe salary _and_ purpose than either alone, we can all agree."

"Then you're in a difficult position," Edward said. The sun had fully set then. "Her talents will ensure neither the state nor its army survives, at least not in any serviceable form. When she's gone you'll soon follow."

"You must imagine a state of disarray in Merestan. You couldn't be more wrong."

"Then it appears Eliza Anders is just as limited in her abilities as the rest of us. But do be consistent. This sense of shared purpose between rulers and ruled: did you forget that?"

"Not for a moment. What you see here is how it's always been, only taken to an extreme," Liebert said, tapping the window behind him. Anya had still yet to move again, and had taken to staring at the door. "What can we expect in Merestan? They threw all the industrialists they could find off a wall, but what does that change? Now the factories are simply managed by the officials. No longer a regional command centre, but the _capital_. Oh, they love their work, those officials."

"Tell me something," Kesler said suddenly, leaning forward. "I can't see Mirzin agreeing with that. He wanted to turn the factories over to the masses, not—"

"Yes, yes, but what do those factories produce? Where does it go? Why? Let's not forget: there's a singular purpose here, as I said. The factories, the army, the farmers, the administrators: they've all been joined under the central apparatus of that enormous citadel. And why were such fortresses built if not for this purpose? We haven't one here, you'll soon see. Don't tell me it wasn't the obvious outcome."

Liebert was quite excited by then, rushing through his explanations as quickly as he could, looking between them all as if for confirmation of his ideas.

"Then I'm to assume you approve of this new society?" Edward said. "Autocracy without an autocrat, nationalism without a nation. It's as vague as what came before, but I suppose you don't mind now you've your own place in the citadel."

"Don't look at me like that. You could all have a place too, if you like. With me, with her. Not Mr Mirzin, I think, who despises everyone, himself especially, but turn yourself to that same destructive end and she's hardly likely to protest. People with extraordinary ideas are always lonely, you must understand. They won't ever admit it, of course, not even to themselves, but show them you understand and nothing is more obvious."

"You could argue," Edward said, "that your satisfaction after a particularly loathsome day is similar to what we feel after denying all pragmatism solely for the pleasure of spitting in your face. That's not a misapplication of the idea, is it?"

"I'm not the one to ask. I've never spat in anyone's face, you understand. Why can't we all be friends? I look upon you as a friend already, and you know my doctor tells me my knee will never be the same again. A permanent reminder of your affections, but I hold no grudge for it."

"You don't need knees to play your favourite game, but you've put yourself in a position to lose much more than that," Edward pointed out, deliberately ending the older man's endless tangential lines of thought. "I can only assume you're safer paying us this visit than not."

"That would be a dangerous assumption," Liebert said, with all delicacy. "Have you considered I might not be facing any risks at all, whether here or elsewhere? That could certainly be the reality of our situation."

This sort of flagrant disregard for the practical reality of his situation, at least as it appeared, was beginning to show itself as more than a cunning act. Not once had Jean Liebert considered there might be thoughts buried in the mind that could escape his notice. That was the impression made by him. It was difficult not to listen with grudging respect, especially since Edward had held similar opinions for most of his life. But even he had never quite reached Liebert's level of certainty. It never occurred to this man, not in the slightest, that perhaps all his most precious beliefs might be nonsense.

Though it was hard to disagree on the details. Liebert's tone was that of a man surrounded by fools searching for a precious like mind among the filth. He addressed Edward as this like mind, this welcome intellect. Kesler received little more than condescension; Lyra a kinder, softer tone, which was almost more offensive, and he didn't bother speaking to Anya again.

As undeniably peculiar as the night began to seem, neither of them could stop. Liebert was the embodiment of many of the most loathsome ideas Edward had hated for years, but he always seemed to subvert them in curious ways. It was difficult not to respect the sheer brilliance of his rise from provincial civil servant to the lofty office he held then. Even their views on morality and ethics were uncomfortably similar. Liebert was disturbingly well-aware of how reprehensible he was, but always brushed it aside with a dramatic sigh and knowing look.

And for his part the newly promoted General Liebert was fascinated to see the man who had so easily, as he'd aptly put it, spat in their faces rather than join them. He was convinced that Eliza Anders would still have liked nothing more than for them to capitulate. And why? Even if he didn't know why she found this ragged man so worth her interest, though his suspicion was a close one, he couldn't for a minute believe that they themselves couldn't explain the entire mystery in an offhand remark.

Unfortunately neither shared his belief in the reliability of the human mind. Edward's reasons for refusal could be identified, but most as shadowy impressions, not firm statements. And, for all her eloquence, Eliza wasn't so different in that regard. Liebert would never believe it. They represented opposing ideas, he was convinced, and a concession could therefore only mean the complete triumph of one worldview over the other. Perhaps that was true, but unlike Jean Liebert they had both privately dealt with the possibility that all their beliefs were indeed nonsense, and had emerged with a less rigid view of the world as a result.

Which wasn't to say Liebert's thinking was easily criticised. All of them, with the exception of Anya, had known many men in positions of power. Liebert had no need for the usual feigned solemnity. In a different world he would have been a model statesman, if given the opportunity. He had the wit, the sharp insight, the awareness of who he was and who he wasn't, but he never once boasted. This was not that world. Every move he had ever made was guided by the reality of that unfortunate truth, it was clear.

Fortunately having allies came with its advantages. Edward's sudden hesitance to be blunt was not shared by Kesler, whose initial distaste for Liebert soon turned to outright contempt.

"Why don't you admit it? You've pissed them off, and now you're here because you think we'll save you. For our own benefit, of course," she said, the end in a remarkable imitation of his simpering manner. To their immense surprise both Lyra and Anya laughed at that. Not for long, admittedly, the latter looking almost abashed. The damage was done nonetheless, and the sombre atmosphere receded in an instant.

"There was an expression you used before," Liebert said, not offended in the slightest. "Nationalism without a nation. That was it. That's a distinct problem here, you'll soon find. I came to warn you that a cheerful welcome may not be awaiting you at the end of this journey."

"It's been nearly thirty years and I'm still waiting for my first cheerful welcome," Edward said, adopting the same mildly exasperated tone. "I doubt you'll be surprised to learn I'm not expecting one today. And why would I? They're not holding a return celebration for you either, I hear."

Liebert winced at that. It was entirely feigned, but effective nonetheless. "There are certain parts of society that expect, well, _direct_ action. That is a hasty decision, and one I can't make. Nor prevent, in truth."

Kesler just laughed, not even bothering to hide her amusement. They all saw why, and finally Liebert's exasperation seemed real. "They've figured out they can do what they like all you can do this time is watch, haven't they? That's hilarious, Liebert, it really is."

"Figured out?" he repeated slowly, as if in disbelief. "No, no, they've been _told_ they ought to rise up again. Convinced. Tricked. I wept when I heard the news, and knew I could do nothing to stop it. It was your people, don't you dare forget, who left us with violence as the only means of protest. "

"Let's be honest, shall we?" Edward cut in, moments before another scornful remark from his left. "For all your brilliance, which I don't contest, you earned this. Why look so surprised? Your treachery created these creatures. You personally. And I doubt you'll ever be allowed to remove Harper yourself. Perhaps she'll allow him to kill you instead, what do you think? That would be_ justified_."

"No, it wouldn't," Liebert said coldly. He sounded a different man entirely, both the calm expression and light manner giving way to something colder. "You speak of what you can't understand. _I _betrayed _them_? How many died because they wouldn't surrender? Fifty thousand? A hundred thousand?"

A long moment passed. "Sixty thousand was our last estimate," Kesler finally said. Her scorn was replaced by quiet uncertainty. "They didn't count starvation, so I doubt it's accurate."

"And you blame _me_?" Liebert asked in disbelief._ "_Even if they hadn't outnumbered us ten to one. Even if they hadn't done what they did, what tangible difference would it have made? We starved before the uprising, but I can tell you: it was better than this. There had to be another way. I've done despicable things, but at least they've guaranteed my people a future. What has _he_ ever achieved? I won't apologise for being the only one with the stomach to make the logical choice."

"So that's how you make your decisions," Edward said, not bothering to wait for a response. "I'll explain the rest for you, shall I? Tell me if I make a mistake. You've reached the pinnacle of your career and it's pitifully insufficient. Your ultimate aims, whatever they are, are as out of reach as ever. You don't understand what's expected of you or why. You do expect you'll soon die at the hands of a man you can't touch, wrongly blamed for crimes you viewed as inevitable. You're asking us to kill him for you."

"I don't deny that is what I desire," Liebert said. "Neither will I pretend they can dispose of me so easily. He's not here for me, at least not yet. Mr Mirzin knows what I don't, and though he despises me I can see it written in his eyes. For now they need an administrator and a figurehead. When that changes he'll have me killed even if she doesn't."

The implication was clear, and directly supported Edward's growing suspicion. There were two reasons he saw, and it seemed to him Liebert wanted him to see it in that light. Eliza's interest in him had been established on personal grounds, and the use of his work when turned to her aims was a useful distraction, at least for her.

It was not so for Dmitri Mirzin. That name was mentioned to draw his attention back to practical matters and the Third Energy. Liebert had avoided it entirely, and it was immensely clear he hadn't been told what it was, or how it worked, or perhaps even where the generators were. If Edward was indeed captured, as was quite likely, and if Liebert, despised by Mirzin and unsure of Eliza's stance toward him, did nothing, his own ambitions seemed likely to come to a quick and violent end.

What Liebert feared above all, it was clear, was the idea of leaving the world with all his successes ultimately coming to nothing, and being remembered as nothing but a self-serving traitor to the end. It was no surprise this seemed the safest course of action. He needed to remain indispensable for as long as could possibly be managed. And, to Edward's surprise, he did seem genuinely motivated by preventing another northern subjugation, or even the use of the Third Energy. Neither of them could say whether it was possible. That disquieting realisation, if nothing else, was cause for a shared sense of unease.

II

The question of having their guest executed faded as that time passed. There were practical reasons to consider, and it was doubtful Liebert wasn't eagerly waiting to tell them why it would be a terrible idea. None of that seemed to matter. When had it become routine to have men killed for the slightest reasons, as if only to sweep them out of sight? It was tiring, in truth.

It still took considerable effort, but an understanding was reached. Near the end the clouds broke and the stars shone through as they rarely did, seen only through that small, grimy window. Many of them had never been so far from civilisation. It was hard even to listen to the many details as that sight came into clear view. For all the sudden distaste for practicality that developed when gazing out on that infinite landscape, they were as bound by its demands as ever.

Liebert's immediate demands were simple, though he never quite stated them. His position rested on two points. Control over the northern region, and his post at the head of the Alvernian military. Both of these were soon to fade into history, leaving him with nothing. It was almost laughable, and Edward was sure an inexplicable burst of laughter from Kesler was caused by the same realisation. Liebert's only hope was to avoid any and all direct military action.

If the army was smashed, as it easily could be, he was ruined. Nobody seemed to contest that the northern region would find a way to secede. Its ties to Merestan were few and unstable, unlikely to survive the slightest push. A slow internal shift in direction seemed his only chance to further his own ends, whatever they were. Any other course was sure to end in the execution they refused to deliver. Delaying the uprising until those ties were severed was equally important, and no doubt having their group confront the aggressors and northern command would be immensely helpful in that regard.

This line of reasoning was too immediately evident, in a sense. Edward found it especially hard to believe that Eliza hadn't realised the man she'd tasked with finding them had every incentive to leave them unfound. Even more, it seemed his life expectancy would drastically lower if they ever were found. That was certainly intentional. It was likely, he suspected, she intended to let them seize northern command, and more than possible that both Harper and Liebert were completely unaware of that too. Mirzin, at least from Liebert's description, was the one trusted with the actual plan, as it was, and its implementation.

This was a source of relief. A man with identifiable needs, motives that could be called rational, was a rare break from the usual. Liebert needed them to continue as they were. He would turn on them for practical reasons, not some obscure shift in philosophy or mood. Dmitri Mirzin's shifts in philosophy were especially terrible for being both sudden and without warning.

It was especially curious since so little was explicitly said. No paperwork was drawn up, nor could it be drawn up, but each had his tacit expectation nonetheless. Taking up residence in the northern capital would bring these nationalists without a nation, and Harper, back to the forefront. That was their concern, and to be dealt with accordingly.

What was offered in return, other than a reprieve from southern attention, wasn't immediately clear. It was obvious Liebert's faction, such as it was, was directly opposed to Mirzin's, and that their differences were irreconcilable. That wasn't said either; nothing ever was. Another tangent, which was how Liebert communicated everything, hinted at the answer.

"This entire scheme falls apart the moment the first shot is fired in the south," Edward pointed out, taking care not to sound accusatory. "And you remember our first meeting. If that repeats there? Here? Tell me how you intend to stop that."

"You mustn't think I'm alone," Liebert immediately replied. "Whatever your intentions, understand we have ours too, and they're not always clear." Finally he looked to Anya again, as if looking at a piece of furniture. "You were so eager to escape that city. Not once did you ask who sent your old comrades south. Conceit is an ugly thing."

Anya seemed to understand, almost standing up in a fit of discomfort. "Kosra wouldn't have a thing to do with you," she objected, not meeting his eyes. "He wouldn't even _speak_ to you."

"Blackmail is also an ugly thing. Unlike all of us he is susceptible," Liebert replied. "Unlike most men he has the commendable courage needed to ignore it, and so he has spoken to me, only quietly. This adventure has taken a darker turn, one even he would rather not follow. We all have our part to play, and even now he's playing his. What an agreeable man."

The clouds broke again and the moon shone through in full, bathing the grassy steppes outside in pale light. "You've achieved more than almost anyone I've ever known," Edward said quietly, leaning forward to stare into those empty eyes. "Is it only self-interest?"

And to his genuine surprise Liebert leaned forward too and laughed for the first time. It sounded unnatural, as if he hadn't done so for some time and couldn't quite remember how. "What would we do if we didn't play these games?" he said cheerfully. "Self-interest? It's all vanity, every bit of it, and that's all it'll ever be. What's so terrible about that?"

"It's not often I hear it said so openly. Or with that ridiculous smile."

"Don't pretend you don't believe it too. Where was your _rationality_ when you chose the bullet over capitulation?" Liebert said, smiling more than ever. "It felt magnificent, didn't it? You'll never do anything that's not in your own interest. Tell yourself anything you like, you know it's true."

"The man you expect us to kill disagrees, clearly."

"He's a delusional fool, that's what he is. He stayed in that city to die, he could've hanged himself on any day since and he didn't. He blames us because it gives him an excuse to be even more wretched than he was before, and how wonderful must it feel?"

"Then we're all playing our parts, as we must, and nothing else?" Edward asked softly, not looking away for a moment.

"That's all it'll ever be, and that's all it should be. All this," Liebert said, tapping his epaulettes, gesturing at the rifles, "is a distraction. We need our distractions. Some of us even enjoy them. Haven't you felt it? A sensation that pulls you away, shows you a glimpse of something greater, as if you were a small part of something infinite and everything is finally _right_. Don't pretend you haven't learned to enjoy it too. "

It was familiar. Edward didn't bother to deny it. He tried to deny nothing to himself, and the day that change had been made inalterable had seen the exact sensation Liebert described. He could see Lyra watching him closely, more wary than ever, and recalled her presence on that night.

"It's as if a mask is pulled aside," he said hesitantly, speaking more softly than ever. "The world doesn't change, but you almost see beneath it. I remember the sky and the stars, even as your division was entering the city, but I couldn't care. It wasn't apathy, but even then, with everything ruined, it felt as if . . ."

"It was validation," Liebert finished, more cheerful than ever. "You see? You made the wrong choice, nobody sane would say otherwise. If not for your lovely friend Lyra and some well-earned luck you'd have been in for a terrible time. But it was _worth it_. That's what they never tell you. Another man would have fallen to his knees and begged, and it would have been worth it for him too."

And he leaned back again, satisfied the point was well made. None of them spoke for some time. It was almost possible to forget they were adversaries in almost every sense imaginable. Even Kesler said nothing, looking away for most of that exchange. Anya's unnatural stillness had clearly turned to active discomfort. Liebert ignored that the entire time, but he was much too perceptive not to have noticed. He noticed everything, and was too vain to ever pretend otherwise.

Much to everyone's surprise, it was Lyra who broke the otherwise comfortable silence. "I don't understand," she said quietly, looking directly at Liebert. "You said you only feel like that after you do something awful." She looked between the rest of them. "I don't think we, well, I know I only feel sort of . . . disgusting after something like that. You two can't be describing the same—"

"Sadly we can," Liebert said gently. He almost sounded wistful. "You have that rare quality of compassion, my dear. It reminds me of . . . well, it doesn't matter. Not all of us are so fortunate. I can tell you that as necessary as it felt turning on me to save our friend Edward, I felt just as pleasant turning on an entire nation to do as we did that same night. Who can say why?"

"It's because you thought helping that creepy pale woman was brave even though you did none of the work and they would've just killed you if you didn't," Anya said in the flattest tone imaginable. An instant later she glanced up, genuinely uncomfortable, and instead looked firmly at the door. "Sorry. I wasn't there, so I shouldn't be—"

"No, you weren't," Liebert said, contemptuous in an instant. "You were doing what you were told for the benefit of men you didn't know in a foreign power struggle predicated on ideological and philosophical grounds you couldn't possibly understand. I doubt you've had an original thought in your life."

"No," Edward interrupted, "I like to think I understand those lofty ideals, and her version had a distinct air of truth about it." He looked back at Liebert and gave a limp, not quite apologetic shrug. "It's irrelevant either way, I think we can both agree." A short nod was the only response.

With that exchange his respect for the older man lessened. It was indisputable that Liebert would always have treated him, Doctor Edward Kirk, with friendship and respect. They could once have been allies, even partners. But this woman? She was nothing, and there was no respect left for her. It made him uncomfortable, in truth. He had once easily treated his own subordinates in the same way, or worse, and here he saw it again as nothing but reprehensible.

With that moment of insight he became aware that Liebert really did still want to ask why no mention of executions had been made, even from Kesler. Perhaps their friendly reception had overstepped the bounds of amiability and turned offensive. He visibly restrained himself and left it unsaid. No doubt the prospect of being told he wasn't worth executing was too dreadful to take such a risk.

A brief glance from side to side showed that, for all their doubts, neither Lyra nor Kesler objected to the ends achieved enough to actually bother objecting. They represented two factions; unfortunately Rick would simply have to put up with the consensus. Edward turned to deliver the verdict, careful to be as vague as the stated arrangements necessitated.

"It's a reasonable arrangement," he said, with just enough inflection to imply much more. "We'll enjoy your northern hospitality as peacefully as we can, and you can go and pretend to be a diplomat if you think it'll do you any good. You remain both loyal and alive, and we can further our own ends without southern interference."

"Then we have nothing more to discuss," Liebert agreed, rising to his feet. Evidently they were nearing their destination. "When we arrive we'll disembark together. I expect if either of us fail to appear on the platform it may end in unpleasantness. We'll also renew contact, say, once a week. You'll thank me for the southern news, I suspect. I'll even take requests." He couldn't say it without implying there was a special reason for that southern news to be important. It may even have been true, which made his tone especially exasperating.

But it was agreed. They even shook hands over it, more from politeness than any sense of unity, though that inexplicable feeling of respect lingered on both sides. It was always easier, of course, when there was gain to be had on both sides, and when immediate violence was sure to only worsen their individual predicaments.

That aside, all of them privately came to believe that the military's influence had weakened to a degree they hadn't dared to believe was possible. This hint turned almost to certainty when the city itself, such as it was, first came into view.

It was worse than they'd imagined. The outskirts were almost entirely unlit, with only a few scant sources of light illuminating low buildings, half of which seemed uninhabited. The roads were mostly unpaved; those that were seemed all but ruined, and few vehicles could be seen anywhere. Their eyes were drawn to the horizon. It was distinguished solely by what it lacked. There was no fortress that rose high above the city, drawing attention from even the furthest corner. Even more peculiar was the complete absence of patrols or guardsmen. Not a single man in uniform was seen, though admittedly it was so dark that no conclusive assessment could be made.

More than stagnation was to blame. Many of the largest buildings were in ruins, even then, and as they passed Kesler pointed out lingering evidence of sustained shelling from afar. Never had she sounded more resigned. Other buildings had simply been burnt and left as they were. More astounding still was that many of these shelled complexes showed signs of occupation.

To call this a city was to either indulge in unjustified generosity or an attempt at hiding the ugly truth. A mass of people lived here, it was true, but solely from necessity. There was nowhere else for them to go. These people lived in squalor and always had, and had grown accustomed to it. Edward was sure, seeing the constant reminders of the subjugation, that resignation would give way to spite and unavoidable hatred once more. Nothing else was more probable.

This feeling fell over them all, though nobody dared give voice to it. As they approached the station both Lyra and Kesler left to inform the rest of their party of these developments. By then every southerner with them felt that same heavy weight. It was as if the wretchedness of this place was as much a part of the city as the people and the buildings. The three of them waited in silence, but Anya stared through the window with a look of almost childish curiosity. Jean Liebert looked upon that with disdain, meeting Edward's eyes as if hoping to remonstrate about overly excited fools, but he found no sympathy there.

"Take a good look," Liebert said instead, looking directly at Anya. "This is how we live, and have always lived. Is escaping the same why you've chosen to lead this degrading life? It's a profitable profession, no doubt. Or will you try and claim you're motivated by patriotic sentiment? No, I don't think so."

"Why are you blaming me?" Anya murmured, not turning away from the window. "I said I'd help you, didn't I? We didn't have to do any of this."

"And you didn't have to follow _him_ here," Liebert replied, nodding at an increasingly bemused Edward. "If I hadn't anticipated this? One mistake, by any of us, and we'll see what a harsh world this is for ourselves."

And for all this, the visible decay, the palpable despair, both the anger and the plea for caution in his words, what they ultimately saw at the station came as almost no surprise at all. Waiting there were Liebert's guardsmen, southern soldiers all, and spread throughout the area were at least as many of the dissidents sent to enter the city beforehand.

Nothing would have seemed more natural than for every rifle to be drawn, for the ground to be littered with corpses, or at least for each side to be tentatively watching the other. It was not so. They were mixed together equally, as if they had no reason for hostility, though they clearly did. Not a single rifle was drawn, though they were all close to hand. Suspicion and weariness came together, and as it was it seemed almost beyond these men and women to turn to bloodshed so easily now. For all this, none of them were even slightly surprised.

Liebert, of course, claimed credit for himself. His orders alone had resulted in this peaceful meeting even as they held theirs. But that seemed positively ridiculous. How could one man's order produce this? If they had wanted bloodshed it would have ended so on one of any number of easy pretexts, it was clear.

Given an excuse not to shoot it had perhaps dawned on them that their adversaries were very much like them, not inhuman at all, certainly not as unreasonable as they'd been told to imagine. In this time defined by endless violence, in a place home to such bitterness it was almost palpable, it was both absurd and almost mundane to see Liebert's soldiers sitting around a fire and laughing with several of Kesler's militiamen, many of whom had never been soldiers at all, but lifelong dissidents.

They even disembarked with a minimum of fanfare. Edward agreed it would be easiest if he and General Liebert—he considered making that announcement himself—descended together, and that Kesler waited inside for a time. She was the most fitting figurehead after him, he reasoned, if something unpleasant were waiting below. It became apparent there was no subterfuge awaiting them. Even if Liebert himself gave the order for blood it wasn't clear it would be followed.

Only two figures by the far wall, all but unlit (evidently half the lights had been stolen), were visibly distancing themselves from the rest. Neither wore a uniform, both clad in heavy winter clothes as befitted the bitter night air. Edward watched them closely, especially the smaller of the two, a woman with long brown hair, heart rate increasing as he realised . . . but no, they moved toward the entrance, eyes darting between him and Liebert; he recognised neither of them.

"Should I have them detained? What do you say?" Liebert murmured in his ear. It was too late; they were gone, and would not be coming back.

"Your friends, I assume," Edward said, genuinely exasperated. "You wanted them to see us together. Don't think I don't know it. Now every last one of them thinks I'm with you."

"Oh, I suppose they might. I do apologise. I should have warned you." Even then Liebert managed to avoid sounding excessively smug. That was possibly more infuriating than any amount of gloating.

"Aren't you concerned? Perhaps they'll speak too freely and that remarkable woman who so trusts you will hear of our close friendship, what do you think?"

Behind them the gathering of opposing forces had been visibly overcome by doubt. Confusion and the realisation that something significant was taking place were to blame, and the lack of instructions from either side hardly helped. Anya waited at Liebert's side, uncomfortable with the uniforms, clearly tired of the insults, likely wishing she could be anywhere else.

"I doubt it. A rumour, and a self-serving one. And what if she does?" Liebert said. He glanced back, nodding at one man in particular, a sergeant-major if his uniform was to be believed. "No, I expect this was predicted, in truth. Why, if the rumour is true, my execution order is tied to your successful return."

"Even if it is, this can easily be framed as sedition. I won't lie. I'm glad I'm not you. But I do feel like I've been here before. Have you considered all of us might have simply been moved out of the way? This could be a distraction in a rather mundane sense."

"It's quite possible. More likely than not, I must admit. But these aren't excuses for me. This is _my_ life, and I don't intend to be thrown away so lightly. I suggest you make yourself similarly indispensable."

"I've been trying to do that for a lifetime. But to whom, and why? If only it were as clear for me as it is for you," Edward said, quite aware it was too late to go back. He offered the older man his hand, and Liebert shook it warmly. "I won't call you friend, just between us, but half the country is going to think otherwise. We'd better play our parts. Try not to disappoint me."

"He will, and you know he will," Kesler said, interrupting them both as she disembarked. She wasn't especially happy with this arrangement, it was clear, but it was just as clear she had no alternative to offer.

"There are degrees of disappointment," Liebert said, turning his polite smile on her. "The truth is, you can do as you like up here. You'll find I have more pressing concerns than either of you. Keep the peace, don't get caught, and we can be the very best of friends. From afar."

"So you wouldn't like to ask exactly what his research uncovered?" Kesler asked, staring at him with undisguised distaste. She pointed at Anya. "And you didn't ask whether she saw what they were protecting? And you won't tell me Mirzin's men wouldn't let you anywhere near that coastline when you tried to take a look for yourself?"

"I didn't see it," Anya said, drawing another derisive look from Liebert. "Two square kilometres, that's what we had to protect. Nobody told us why. Then the sky lit up and nearly burned my eyes out. They still wouldn't tell us why. Even Andrey didn't—"

"That will come as no surprise to anybody," Liebert interrupted. "Clearly you can't be trusted with even the most trivial secrets." He looked back at Kesler. "You're not wrong. Are you expecting threats? The appeal of violence is clear enough—to the incompetent. This is how we in the civilised world conduct ourselves." With that he sighed in a show of regret, probably feigned. "And now I'll leave you. I don't expect we'll meet again for some time, if ever, but it's hard to say."

"I suppose we'll be communicating through the provost marshal's office?" Edward asked. His eyes were drawn to most of Liebert's followers as they drew near a second train.

"Yes, I suppose so. They'll be running a few other errands for me, so why not this? Oh, and enforcing the law, I suppose. We can't forget that," Liebert said, now sounding disinterested. He glanced at Anya again. "That's still possible, isn't it? You haven't made a mess of that too?"

"We didn't make a mess of anything," Anya said, her tone wavering between discomfort and anger. "They even sent a hit squad, just like you said, and we fought them off. Let me guess: we did that wrong too, should've just let them kill us."

"Yes, I am impressed, don't mistake me, but I do wonder . . . well, it's not important. Hit squads sent for my subordinates. You'll have to stay with me for some time, I think. Too much of a risk otherwise," Liebert said. He shook himself out of thought, looked at Edward again. "Well, this really is goodbye. I do hope you enjoy yourself, and try not to think too harshly of us for our poverty. Oh, and a word of advice. It'll snow tonight, more likely than not. Shelter is not optional here."

The tension in the air built to almost intolerable levels as they separated and Liebert approached the train. Again these were opposing forces, ready to kill and die at any second, and everyone in the station knew it. Lyra had prepared for this, they noticed, if discreetly, and so had Liebert's sergeant-major. It was remarkably easy to be absent-minded with such competent friends.

But the precautions were unnecessary. Most of them had boarded when Liebert reached the doors, Anya following behind, almost unrecognisable from the vibrant, even disturbingly energetic woman they'd met that afternoon. Cut a man's spinal cord one hour, shrink back in fear from another the next. Something about that was unsettling. Liebert didn't look back, but she did, as if trying to understand something and failing.

Edward was overcome with a sudden surge of revulsion. There was an impression being left here, it was clear, in the minds of all involved. Their series of back and forth games had left Liebert with the final victory, having them associated as allies in the eyes of their mutual enemies. Was that it? It was unthinkable to allow Liebert to leave as the victor. That much he even saw in Kesler's dour expression. It was also clear this wasn't entirely to blame either, so he forcibly pushed that moment of spitefulness aside.

Instead he stepped forward and met the curious eyes of the woman glancing back with such uncertainty. "Why not come with us?" he said, and he knew the question would be answered literally.

"Do you need a bodyguard?" Anya asked, clearly still uneasy. It was also clear she knew that wasn't the point. "I can fight fairly well, and I don't care what the orders are. You two can communicate through me, if you like. And—"

"That's wonderful. It really is. But would you rather be General Liebert's bodyguard, or would you rather come and see this city with us?"

There was another moment of hesitation, and she glanced up at General Jean Liebert, who was plainly exasperated beyond description.

"Yes, very well. I will contact _you,_" Liebert said, pointing firmly at Anya, "when I wish to speak to him. You can be my representative until this unpleasant business is concluded. A week from now to the hour. She'll know what to expect. Until then, Doctor."

Liebert boarded without any more delay, taking most of his men with him. Only the black uniformed military police remained, and most of them quickly dispersed, heavily unnumbered and outgunned. Edward carefully watched that train as it left, more to avoid the uncomfortable stare Kesler had fixed on him than for anything else.

"You're right, Kirk. He needs us, even more than he was willing to admit. The second that changes I expect he'll ask us to sign up with him, and when we refuse . . ." she said. He knew better than to fall for it and look at her, and they played that childish game for a few minutes.

"What a brilliant man," Edward murmured. "It's all vanity. That was his line. He'd know about vanity than most. I admit, it's still a relief not to be shot at over every minor dispute. Or imprisoned. Especially imprisoned."

"Don't be so bitter. How about this? If I ever see Anton again I'll break his jaw for both of us. He'll be the same arrogant bastard he always was, just you wait."

"I don't think I'd stop you," Edward said, "but don't think I'm bitter now. I wish I was. I might regret being so _civilised_, as our dear General Liebert put it." He finally looked at her, and it wasn't as terrible a stare as he'd expected. "I doubt we'll see either of them again. Well, why be so gloomy? Whatever we're looking for here, we'll certainly have the time to find it."

"You think she'll find it?" Kesler asked, nodding at Anya, who had been swiftly set upon by Lyra and carried off, no doubt for practical reasons they had yet to consider. "Philosophical motives are your usual now, it seems to me. Gives me a headache." But she did give him a rare smile. "Or maybe not. You're a bit _too _eloquent, you know. Could be you want her around for something else entirely. I wouldn't know. Just be careful."

"That sort of suspicion is entirely unfounded," Edward declared, again watching the train, or the empty tracks where it had once been. "I will admit to one ulterior motive. Wasn't it fun to see the good general humiliated? I like to have fun. Not often, I have to admit, but who could've resisted that temptation?"

"Temptation is one way to put it. This won't be fun, I'll tell you that. They'll hate us, whether Harper's here or not. Feed and provision three hundred for, what, six months? Twelve? What's the word for what we're going to have to become?"

"I'd like to say the circumstances warrant it. Whether they do or not, I'll act like they do, just like everyone else."

"Not having one of Liebert's special moments, are you? The only thing I learned today is that he loves the sound of his own voice. You do too, I have to tell you. Don't let it get to you."

Edward barely heard her last words. He was slipping into thought, as he often did, and tried to break the spell before it began. "If I do turn into a . . . how did you put it? Arrogant bastard? But I shouldn't need to worry; the moment I do I expect you'll break my jaw too."

"What else are friends for?" Kesler said, managing to make even that sound disdainful, but she clapped a hand on his shoulder to make up for it. "I never wanted to come back here, but there's no use complaining now. There's your job. Don't let me start complaining too. It's bad for morale."

"Right. If you complain I'll file a complaint. A verbal complaint," Edward said, nodding firmly. "Can't let them realise we don't know what we're doing. Speaking of incompetence, you'd better find out where we're going now. Someone knows, but that someone isn't me."

"Western quarter, top of the big hill," interjected Lyra's soft voice from one side. "Apparently the view's quite pretty, but we might need to do some renovating. Sorry." That wasn't so terrible, and they both accepted it with little more complaint than a limp shrug.

Evidently the world had continued moving while they wasted the night speaking, and most of the preparations had been made. But Edward found he preferred this to his past experiences. Even then, as one voice among equals, it felt as if he had more control over his own direction than he'd ever had when managing his subordinates' time down to the last minute.

Lyra was an excellent administrator, and Andrea Kesler an inspiring and efficient commander. Similar could be said for the rest of them, and it was just as true that he was none of those things. They relied on him for direction and as a figurehead and perhaps even, as Kesler so snidely put it, for being perpetually lost in thought. The work was done by those most suited to it, and without a single order needed. It was a relief, in truth, to operate this way, and for more reasons than cold efficiency.

As they left the station this became especially clear. The entire street had been cordoned off, and all precautions had been taken. Edward hadn't even met half these people, but here they were. Lyra ran off to meet a group wearing tattered blue-grey uniforms, embracing one of them, and two others waved to attract their attention from the road. Six cars had been found somewhere, a veritable miracle, and Edward showered upon them all the praise such a feat demanded.

"Who are you people? What are you doing here?" Anya said, one of the last to emerge from the station. She looked at him alone, a hint of her prior impertinence returning with Liebert gone. Her accent was more noticeable, betraying her continued uneasiness. "Liebert was right, you know. I don't know much, but I get they're not really the good guys here. But this place . . . he's trying to help them? That's not what you're here for, right? So who _are_ the good guys?"

Kesler gestured at the crowd. "You could be looking at them."

"What a very depressing thought," Edward said, returning her grimace. "Let's go. I sympathise with Liebert's motives, if that's what they really are. He'll use us, and we'll use him. With that happy arrangement made, we have other concerns, and I'd rather not meet anyone else tonight. Anyone."

"You ever wonder if every decision you've ever made was the wrong one?" Anya asked, reaching the first car and dubiously tapping its rusty door. "Maybe it's just me. Long way from home and a long way to go, you know?"

"Look at it this way," Edward said. "I'm not half as obnoxious as Liebert, and I'll even let you share our private car. If it all works out you might even get that citizenship. More likely we'll all die horribly, but you can't say it wasn't entertaining."


	35. Chapter 35

Even the most transient circumstances had a tendency to be perceived as permanent. Unpleasant days stretched forward and promised to claim a lifetime for themselves. Cheerful afternoons promised an equally consistent future, or so it seemed at the time.

Admittedly that dreadful feeling usually receded by the next day, if not shortly after lunch. It was rarely a belief and more a sense of anxiety that persisted despite any number of convincing arguments to the contrary. Where was the certainty? That was the entire issue.

In the past two weeks Regina had both observed this phenomenon and felt it for herself. Only four days after retreating to Levin's recently reclaimed townhouse she'd found herself sitting on the southern command centre's rooftop. That feverish and bitter mood, all but sure to last forever, instead vanished on a quiet morning notable only for being a Wednesday. Both Dylan Morton and Mikhail Levin, her co-conspirators, had noticed immediately. Noticed and said nothing. Dylan was too polite, and Levin was something else entirely, either disinterested or excessively prudent.

This clarity was equally sure to last forever. She didn't believe it, or think of it at all, but acted as if that were the most likely course of events. And so did everyone else. This was a society barely three months into its existence, and one not likely to enjoy many more. At first Regina had been cautious, thinking accompanying Levin on his administrative duties a terrible idea, but he'd promised the absurdity of that would be immediately obvious, and so it had been.

It was a rather cheerful place, given the circumstances. A military-led establishment that wanted to be anything else; a thinly populated agricultural society wishing it were an industrial powerhouse; revolutionaries who knew how to use both rifles and paper but not how to make either. The industrial workers of Merestan were more missed than they knew, as Levin complained of at length. There were offices for everyone, a committee for everything, and the rumour was they would run out of paper well before ammunition.

This wouldn't be permanent either. The breeze was warm and smelled of salt; southern wind had followed them for the last three days and brought unseasonable weather with it. The sea never changed except on a superficial level, it was clear even after that short time. Was that so terrible? Regina found she liked the sea, and even the uncomfortable life that came with living on a ship. Transience wasn't inherently desirable.

Even those two men, neither the friends she'd have imagined for herself, were quickly becoming more agreeable. As Anton Royce said: the general gives the order, but the outcome is never preordained. A week was the estimate when the plan was to corner Kosra's men in a town and storm it. Whether the trap was foreseen, whether they'd simply redirected in search of increasingly scarce food and provisions, it simply hadn't worked. Now any query as to the likely end of this operation was met with much shuffling of papers, and little else.

Some men preferred to talk and philosophise about work rather than actually do it. In their defence, there were usually good reasons for doing so. Anton Royce was one of these men. Dylan Morton and Mikhail Levin were not. No sooner had this news arrived than Regina had confronted Levin again. A week more and there they were on the open sea, approaching the coast of their own territory. The shore was just coming into sight, and the sound of groaning metal signalled the opening of a bulkhead door.

"I thought I'd find you here," Dylan Morton said, emerging from the cramped doorway. "You're sure you want to go through with this? Nobody's going to blame you if you don't."

"If I don't do it Levin's just going to shell the place," Regina said, looking back at the sea. "He'll be a hero, and we'll have achieved nothing. That's one way to ruin my day."

"You'll get over it. You won't get over being hit by artillery."

"I'll be fine. He won't need a single shell, I promise."

"That's easy to say now," Dylan said, leaning over the railing. From this angle he really did look the healthiest he had for some time. Atrophied muscle was beginning to strengthen again, his hair was less brittle, and his eyes weren't so hollow. Dylan stared out at the sea, almost wistfully, and let out a long breath. "Last time I was here it was raining. Might have even been this ship."

"What are you talking about?" Regina asked, already exasperated. "I'm relying on you to be the one who doesn't speak in riddles. Can't you even do that?"

"That's not how you get promoted," Dylan said. "Don't say anything you can't take back, that was the number one rule." He looked back at her, mildly startled. "Sorry. You'd think I'd have better things to think about now, but right before every assignment I end up like this. I might as well admit it. Get enough promotions, maybe make colonel, and use that to do . . . something. It stopped making sense after I took that bullet. "

"It's fine," Regina said. "It all falls apart if you stop moving, so you don't. It's not like you need to worry about it now. Keep following Levin around and you'll be fine. Problem is, that's only true if we make it through today, so remember that and forget the rest."

"And that's what I needed to hear," Dylan said. "I might not be able to say why I wanted that promotion, but today I'm your backup. If I screw it up they'll leave us out there to die. There's your motivation."

"Put it any way you like: motivation's best when it's right in front of you."

"That's the only way to put it. Come on," Dylan said, straightening himself with only a minor hint of pain. "We're almost late, and Mikhail's excited enough. Yeah, excited. You'll never guess what he's found. I wasn't supposed to warn you, so try to look surprised."

With some reluctance they left the warm breeze and sunny deck behind, returning into the dusty interior of the ship. Regina freely admitted she knew nothing about the navy, or ships, or this ship in particular, or would do so if anyone ever bothered to ask. It was fitted with heavy artillery and anti-air guns, that was clear, and wasn't much of a troop carrier. All their soldiers were on the border, as it was. Where would they even land an invading force? Nowhere. That was the resounding answer written in each sailor's eyes.

They all did as they thought was necessary. Gail was somewhere on those distant shores doing the same, evidently having taken this incursion as an affront to the entire campaign, such as it was. Regina hoped he would understand, perhaps even approve, or at least not look on them too harshly. She also knew he intensely disliked Levin, this naval officer turned bureaucrat, but there was nothing to be done about that. Gail disliked almost everybody, or worse: he simply didn't care, and couldn't pretend to.

Gail's men weren't the only ones overstretched in unfamiliar territory. By all indications their enemies were in an even worse position, having taken refuge in a small town near the coast. Whatever they'd expected to find, it had seemingly proven itself beyond their grasp. Battered, starved, and desperate, any who could were sure retreat north again, back within the protective range of Merestan's artillery. Nobody would dare offer them a pretext to fire. As it was, if not for Regina's addition to this plan the shelling would already have started.

Their justification for taking a portion of the fleet was respectable enough, and respectability was all that mattered. Levin had presented a convincing plan to a hall of curious officials, including many former colleagues from the navy. It was remarkably simple. If the army was incapable of such a delicate task, the navy would bombard the entire area from afar. This was a drastic move, it had to be said, given this region was still populated and had adjusted to their various impositions with enthusiasm. Murmurs of local councils and decentralisation or not, even allowing for proposed trials of both, any real power was still wielded within the walls of the old command centre.

They had taken a vote, one Regina had witnessed, with both the military and, surprisingly enough, representatives hastily chosen by the farmers and workers of that area. Anton Royce had also been present, and firmly outvoted. Gail would have any men under his command march through sleepless nights rather than permit such a failure, but it was unlikely to make much difference. Three months was not nearly enough to rebuild shattered lines of command and organise fresh supply chains, and they all knew it.

The rest would be a lovely surprise to Royce and his faction, and perhaps to everyone else too. Little more was said as Regina and Dylan traversed the mazelike halls of that ship, but they remained on the same level and ultimately emerged on the far side. This was a section she had never seen, a cavernous hall concealing something of immeasurable worth.

As expected, Mikhail Levin was waiting within, and with a look of unusual liveliness. Behind him was a sleek black helicopter, freshly washed and polished, and fitted with guns on both sides. Warned or not, Regina failed miserably to conceal a look of disbelief as she stared at it.

"What do you think?" Levin called out, each word echoing off the metallic walls. "Isn't it beautiful? We have two of these, and one's all for us. Tell me I'm a genius."

"Where did you get it?" Regina asked. "I haven't seen one of these for months. Does Royce—"

"We bought these things from Borginia about ten years back," Levin said. He turned back, slapped it on one side. "Only the boys in Merestan didn't realise we had two of them on our ships when they kicked us out. As far as they knew these were shipped off to Central for repairs. Lucky coincidence, eh?"

Dylan only looked more exasperated. "Do we make _anything _in this country?"

"We did some of the refitting," Levin said mildly. "I think. And we made the bullets here. Or there. Merestan's not really here now, is it?"

Regina didn't respond to that dubious story. Even back then, in relatively peaceful times, bureaucratic informalism was the one reliable path to results. Levin was happy enough with that, it was clear, concealing his own amusement with difficulty.

"So you're dropping us off in this?" she asked, inspecting the helicopter for herself. It was the same model they'd taken to Ibis Island. In hindsight it was clear why they were so seldom used. It was fortunate, she thought, that they'd stolen a replacement for the one they'd lost. That move alone had likely saved someone's career.

"If you're still going," Levin said, though it was barely even a formality. "There's a seven in ten chance you'll die horribly if you do, you know." He grimaced, then looked at Dylan. "Four in ten for you."

"Seven in ten? You're not even trying," Regina said. "I'd say one in five, and only if _you_ get impatient."

"If I submitted an official report with those numbers you'd change your mind," Levin said. In an instant all humour was gone. "I don't just say it as a joke. Threats, reasoning: these don't always have the impact you expect. Somewhere along the way some men just stop caring."

"But she knew that well before meeting you," Dylan added, saving Regina the trouble of repeating herself. "And you'll never be submitting a report on this. Drop us off, and I'll give you the signal. Take the night off and leave it all to us."

"Oh, I'm sure you will," Levin said. "But _which_ signal? That'll be the fun part."

"You'll change your mind when we're dead and you've lost that helicopter," Regina said. "How many committees do you think they'll start when that happens?"

"I don't intend to find out," Levin said lightly. Not for the first time Regina gave one of his innocuous sentences more thought than it called for. No doubt he would do all he could to keep them safe. And if that failed? But it wasn't her problem.

They were scheduled to leave in an hour. Levin soon produced the small bag containing Regina's requested supplies. Two flare guns, a letter of introduction, a radio, and a day's provisions. Dylan inspected a heavy case concealing a sniper rifle, something he'd insisted on bringing, and a collection of old radios. Not much more needed to be said, and it was better not to speak too openly about such things until they were finished.

The task was a simple one. Whatever their intentions, Kosra's militiamen had taken a serious misstep by staying as long as they had. Even if they had avoided all pursuit, the one strength Polostin had was its navy. Due to much careful political work, and their adversaries' forced withdrawal to the coast, it had finally been positioned. Kosra and his men were already dead, and probably knew it.

Fortunately they weren't especially ideological, at least as far as their role here went. Unpleasant memories resurfaced of members arguing over the distasteful necessity of taking orders from people they viewed as natural enemies. Presumably the same orders had now brought them all to their deaths on hated foreign soil, and for what? How much worse could it be to receive a visitor on the night before it ended, and one who could call off the bombardment?

Regina found herself alone in her quarters half an hour before the appointed time. It wasn't home, but neither was anywhere else. A small window facing the eastern sky, three empty shelves, an unmade bed, and not much else. It couldn't be faulted. It couldn't be praised either. Perhaps Levin was right, she thought, looking at the window, seeing nothing. Seven in ten wasn't so unlikely. But if answers were the objective, they were just as likely to be revealed whether she returned or not. Validation or death, perhaps both, but never capture.

Those were better terms than most. Regina threw her state issued identification, specially made by one of Levin's friends in the new department, on the desk. Accurate as it was, she couldn't look at it without scowling. Two flare guns, a letter, and that was all that was needed. But she hesitated a moment before leaving, knelt down by the bed, and threw the one pillow aside. Underneath was a thin dagger.

When she returned to the hangar Dylan was already there, as was Levin, but both were busy silently contemplating the far wall, seated on crates. "You're flying us over yourself, Levin? I'm flattered," she called out, startling him in the process.

"No, I'm afraid I don't have my license," Levin said. He stood up, stretching with a rather painful look about him. "And I must admit, anti-air guns scare me. They shouldn't have any, but why take the risk?"

"That's just what I needed to hear," Dylan said. He remained seated. "Where's your pilot, then? This'll be easier if we're there before sunset."

"She's here now, just for you," Levin said, waving at the far door. A rather bored looking woman slipped through, but she returned the wave with more energy. "Now we'd better be clear about this. Red flare at five forty-five and we don't shoot. Green flare at seven fifty and we still don't shoot. I forget the rest, so take this and memorise it so I don't have to." He handed her two copies of the same document. "Anything else we'll ignore unless Dylan calls in and wakes me up. I'd rather not be woken up."

"I'll bring you back a new friend or nothing at all. Happy?" Regina said, watching as the pilot reached them. It was obvious enough from her exasperated manner that this mission was completely unorthodox, but she shook each of their hands in turn anyway. Levin's with the most force, and a knowing look. Clearly he was calling in a favour.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Levin threw an arm over the pilot's shoulder, no doubt solely to annoy her, and gave them his most convincing smile. "Come back alive, would you? I don't know what I'd do without you, if you'll believe it."

"I don't, but I appreciate the sentiment," Regina said, glancing at Dylan. Levin looked expectantly at him too, but he could only shrug as if to confirm her statement.

"There's gratitude for you," Levin said, but he didn't seem especially concerned. His eyes drifted down to her hip instead. "And there's a lovely dagger. Would you rather a pistol?"

"No pistols. I'm not a soldier, not even for you," Regina said, lightly tapping the aforementioned dagger. "It has sentimental value. It's easy to forget things we'd rather forget, so I won't give myself the chance."

"I knew you had a sentimental side. Good for you. I can't think of one memory worth keeping. My fault for taking a desk job. But I mean what I say. When they call me General Secretary Levin I need you both there with me. Don't make me face the committees alone."

As the heavy doors above opened, not without considerable grinding and groaning, Levin waited at the far door with a new entourage and waved a final farewell. The pilot scowled at that, shaking her head, but Dylan returned it, smiling faintly. Regina did not, barely noticing either gesture, and didn't look back until the warship was once more fading into the distant horizon.

II

They descended again after little more than an hour's travel. Most of this land, seen from above, was defined by rolling plains and lightly forested hills. Agriculture had dominated this region for centuries and it was perhaps the most fertile ground in the entire nation. Half the crops had withered; others were unplanted, the fields overtaken by weeds, and the occasional field of wheat actually nearing harvest came to seem almost out of place.

"We'll be landing on that hill," the pilot said, not bothering to point out which hill she was referring to. "Mikhail can make all the jokes he likes, but Borginia made this bird and they made the guns that'll shoot it down. You can walk the last four miles."

"Don't worry about it," Regina said. "Whatever you do, just don't get shot down. I doubt we'll get to steal a new one this time."

"Oh, so that was you? Nice work," the pilot said, glancing back with newfound admiration. "Hold on—we're coming down. But tell me: my buddy flew you over on that mission. You came back, even flew back, but he sure didn't. What happened?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Really. Keep your nerve and your distance; this time we'll all make it back alive."

To the pilot's credit, she took the warning seriously and didn't ask for further explanation. They kept in the cover of the hill and out of sight of the town on the other side, disembarking halfway down the slope. The walk was a short one, but they were both feeling the first hints of fatigue when they reached the peak.

They took a moment to observe from that vantage point, partly from necessity, mostly from a shared sense of wonder. The day was so clear that they saw far into the distant sky. On one side were endless fields, half sown with long forgotten crops, only two small farmhouses in the distance left as signs of civilisation. Both were abandoned; one was burned. Further south cattle roamed freely, most of the fences having been torn down, but from their position they were barely specks in the distance.

On the other side the forest stretched further down the hill, taking up most of the northern landscape. Several houses could be seen to the northwest, closer to the coast, but there was no activity there either. Further than that the forest came to an abrupt end. It gave way to, as promised, a small agricultural settlement. Wooden houses of an older style were the standard, with few higher than two stories. Only the stone clock tower at its centre would be especially prominent on a normal day. This was not a normal day. Thick plumes of smoke rose from the town, perhaps five or six standing out clearly; most were on the side closest to them.

"Looks like I won't have a hard time finding you," Dylan said, kneeling down and opening his case. "Smell that air. It's beautiful, isn't it? It's been too long since I made out here. Shame about the smoke."

"What are you complaining about? With this wind you can pretend it isn't there," Regina said, for once unable to sound convincingly cynical. It was a beautiful day, and the air did have that clean feel to it so absent even in Polostin, small and relatively free of polluting industry.

For a time they waited there in silence, the only sounds those of the swaying pines and Dylan assembling his rifle. Once that was done and the appropriate angles were checked there could be no more delaying the trek down the other side.

"There was a line I always liked, learned it in training," Dylan said as he examined the scope. "We know we're already dead, we just don't know how it happened yet, so why worry? Helps the more nervous recruits, you know? Not everyone adjusts as easily to hearing bullets shot over their heads as we did."

"I've heard it before, yes."

"I figured as much. So, since we're already dead, you mind if I ask you something?"

"Depends. I won't lie to you, but don't expect much."

Dylan hesitated, clearly uncertain, and put the half-assembled rifle down. "There's something I don't understand, but I think I should."

Regina held up one hand. "Just to be clear. You're not doing this because Levin thinks I'm going to get shot and he's hoping I'll tell you all my secrets just in case I don't come back?"

"No, not at all."

"Oh. Well, that's a relief. What's the problem?"

"It might sound stupid, given the circumstances, but it's about this," Dylan said, gesturing at the surroundings. "And it's about that." He pointed at the dagger on her belt. "You were clinging to that thing the night we found you on the streets. It's not my place to ask, so I haven't. I know more about you from what Rick told me than what you have, and that's fine, but now we're here—"

"I'm not going down there for some kind of stupid revenge plot, if that's what you're thinking."

"No? Does that come later?" Dylan asked. He sounded as calm as ever, but it was clear he wouldn't let this go so easily. "Don't forget I was on that island too, and in that same unit. Mikhail loved what he read in those journals, showed me most of it. The guy running those labs was a genius, sure, but anyone who has both Mikhail and Eliza so eager to find him is bad news. And that knife? Don't think I'm an idiot; I saw that thing on Harper's belt for years. He nearly put it through one of my friends."

"You think I'm treating _you _like an idiot?" Regina asked. He'd hit a particularly unpleasant suggestion. "This is Harper's knife, sure. He gave it to me rather than put it through my throat. I'm not deluded enough to think killing him or her or any of them will do a thing for me."

To her surprise Dylan listened calmly, shrugged, and returned to assembling the rifle. "That's fine. Just had to be sure."

"You could at least try and argue the point. Why do you always have to be so calm? It's not natural."

The last component clicked into place and Dylan examined the finished piece in the sun. "Like you said. Revenge might make you feel good for a while, but it won't change anything. Arguing's the same, and I was never much good at that either."

"I'll keep that in mind. And you're worrying about nothing. The man who wrote those journals is dead."

Another moment of silence passed. "I hope you're right. About this, and the rest," Dylan said, and he settled down again to test the scope.

Regina pulled the radios over, mostly to avoid saying anything else. They were both perfectly functional, but Dylan had brought a third along. This was an actual radio. Almost bemused, she flipped the switch and tried in vain to find a broadcast. Most of them had been either abandoned or forcibly closed. The national stations certainly wouldn't be back on air any time soon.

"Keep looking, please," Dylan said. "If I have to sit up here for a day I need something to do. Meditation's not really my thing."

"It's a good place to start," Regina said. "And it's a good place to pick up signals, but I'm not finding any. Maybe it's broken."

"Don't even joke about that. If anything breaks today, I can't even—"

He didn't have the chance to finish. The soft crackle of static gave way to speech, and a station was found. Regina put the radio down, looked back at him rather smugly. "See? I figured they hadn't really shut the state broadcast down. They've just kept it local this time."

"Seems like a waste to me. We're still trying to get our own propaganda running; they're missing their chance to get in early and tell everyone how awful we are."

"Maybe not," Regina said, looking at the horizon again. "The signal's weak, but it's made it a lot further south than the supposed border. And I thought they were just sitting up there doing nothing."

It was a dry broadcast. Various orders were being listed by the speaker, a woman distinguished only by her ability to speak with neither emotion nor interest yet sound vaguely threatening in the process. ". . . and battalions forty, fourty-one, and fourty-five have been dispatched to the southern border to defend the Third Artillery Regiment from increasing aggression by unidentified dissidents. Local support staff now associated with these units will receive their orders by the weeks' end. The Fourty-Second Battalion is to reposition on the northern border by the order of the central committee. Their support staff's orders will be dispatched by the day's end.

"Fun stuff," Regina said. "You _are_ going to have an interesting afternoon." Dylan's only response was to gesture for silence.

"The Fourth Artillery Regiment and Fifth Artillery Regiment have reached the eastern border. The continued conflict has forced all exploratory teams sent to the ruins of Central to retreat a third time. A fourth expedition will be delayed until the fighting subsides. Casualties are estimated at seventeen thousand men—six thousand our own. Further information is available through the usual channels," the spokeswoman said, more apathetic than ever. "Lieutenant General Liebert has withdrawn his previously declared intention to take personal command of the massed forces on the southern border, a decision made in the interests of preventing a descent into further violence. The lieutenant general has declared that due to this instability the military will be taking a secondary role in the negotiations with the insurrectionist elements of the former state military governing in Polostin."

"Hey, I was right," Regina said. "You want to lead an army, call yourself a lieutenant general. Who do they think they're kidding? Investigation teams? _Preventing_ violence? Problem is, how do you_ prove_ it's bullshit? Although, now I think of it, what negotiations? They haven't made contact once."

The speaker on the radio abruptly changed, and Dylan's expression turned to one of discomfort. "Here's your answer. That's the 'lieutenant general' speaking now."

"The state military has officially withdrawn its control over the diplomatic corps on the southern border," the lieutenant general began, "We will transfer governance of the same region back to the ministry of internal affairs until such a time that the situation deteriorates to open conflict. Every measure will be taken to avoid this. No military officials will accompany the negotiating party, and the military will turn its full attention to the resolution of the eastern territorial disputes. In light of this shift in direction additional liberties have been returned to the regions subjugated under the expansionist policies of the former military high command. I personally guarantee this: we will withdraw two-thirds of our forces from your lands within a year. The implementation of the withdrawal will be overseen by the provost marshal's office. I will be making a joint announcement with First Secretary Mirzin within the hour on the question of southern reunification."

"Where did they get all these titles?" Regina asked, switching the radio off when the bored woman returned. "I remember when I thought Mirzin was an actual secretary. They put him on the shoot-to-kill list with me, and now look where he is. How naïve was I? They can pretend it's business as usual, but you don't go from that list to first secretary by following orders. You ever meet him?"

"Quiet bastard," Dylan said, reaching over and turning the radio back on, "but I'm not surprised. Two campaigns that turned to hell, twenty years of hell at home too. Some of us used to think he signed up just to fan the flames. A lot of people like him went missing." He met her suddenly inquisitive stare, smiled faintly. "But you'd know better than I would. SORT units did political work, right?"

"I know mine didn't," Regina said. "I spent almost five whole years overseas. Besides, they put Royce in charge of investigations. He's not going to arrest his own assistant. Dissident or not, Mirzin made himself more comfortable in blue than I ever did."

"Maybe so," Dylan said. "But nobody's immune. Before the revolt Mikhail had the military police at his door, and during the border wars they actually cracked down on dissent. Mirzin got sent up north with Eliza just to keep him out of prison. I'd forget it. Just when you think you've figured it out you get kicked in the teeth and fall on your ass. Happens every time. First Secretary Mirzin isn't our problem."

"If either of us believed that," Regina said, "we wouldn't be here. He made this happen and he knew what he was doing. I just want to know if it was worth it."

"You're better off not knowing."

Dylan returned his attention to the rifle without another word. Various self-satisfied murmurs were the first indicator that all was well, though neither of them expected the rifle would actually be fired. Regina took the hint and said no more. Her eyes were drawn to her own arm. The mass of scars was clearer than ever. She traced them with one finger, though not the one which would have been most naturally suited to the task. There was loss there, no doubt, and a permanent reminder of it. It had never quite had the sting she'd imagined while the wounds were inflicted.

Dylan's unexpressed fear was a justified one. Which motive was real, and which was feigned? How could they be differentiated? The comparison had been made, and not for nothing, that she and Harper were alike. Revenge would be easily justified. Useless, petty, built on misplaced blame, but satisfying. This was not revenge, and this too, sitting on a sunny hillside with a friend, without despondency, without pain, was something else he could never have done.

"You're all clear," Dylan announced, looking up again. "Bunch of ragged guys with rifles on the perimeter. They don't look too organised, or too hostile. What kind of formation is that? They're all just sitting around. No corpses I can see, anyway, and no uniforms either. A word of advice: you see anyone in indigo, you get out of there. Want to take a look?"

"No need. I'll see for myself soon enough," Regina said, checking her own equipment. "Red, green, green. I hope I loaded those flares properly."

"I'll have to trust you on this one," Dylan said. He took off his watch and held it out, his usual calm smile fixed in place. "Wouldn't do to get bombed just because your watch stopped."

III

One of the few comforts at the beginning of any operation was the freedom to identify and choose from any number of approaches. The optimal point of entry could always be found. This was especially obvious after five years spent doing little else but staging dangerous and morally dubious raids.

With that noted, Regina opted to knock on the front door. The main road was quiet and free from traffic, though a delivery truck near the hillside entrance, unlikely to ever be especially busy, had crashed into the forest and started a small fire, long since burnt out. The driver was missing. At least there was no blood.

And that was an accurate summation of the town, too. It had clearly been occupied. The smoke and kicked-in doors and shattered windows made that obvious. But where was the blood? Why weren't the streets littered with corpses? Her entrance attracted attention—primarily that of the townspeople. Many of them were still there, wandering the streets, huddled in corners, crouched down against the sides of burnt buildings. None approached for a considerable time, but all stared. Those stares were not inviting. In some she saw something uglier, and was suddenly rather thankful for the prominent dagger at her side.

One ragged man finally stopped in front of her, looked ready to speak, but instead his eyes shifted to the scars, the dagger, and even the flare gun. He said nothing, remained entirely still, and Regina offered him the same treatment. The militiamen was curiously absent, and this was not what she'd expected. Their work in Merestan had been brutal and precise, every detail accounted for. Were they even here? That flare gun was awfully heavy to carry around for nothing.

She glanced back and up, looking at the hill, and shrugged. The terms were clear enough. The offending object was extended, the trigger squeezed, and a bright red flash shot toward the far end of the road. That looked to speed up the process considerably.

As predicted, the many sounds of struggling life in a ruined town were broken by sudden shouts. It was an admirable response time, particularly since the three who responded appeared from separate locations. There was no time to praise them. Admittedly a flash of fear contributed to that. Her last encounter with these people had not been pleasant.

Fortunately the two in front seemed momentarily taken aback. What kind of attacker stormed the front gates with a flare gun? The reassuring weight of an automatic rifle in each hand was a remarkable cure for such concerns, and they both approached to within two metres without much delay.

"Drop the weapon," the first ordered, emphasising the point by raising his rifle.

The second looked blankly between them. "That's a flare gun."

"You could say that," Regina said, lowering it again. "You could also say this flare gun's your salvation, and mine too, so let's not get too agitated."

Instead of replying they looked back, past her entirely. So did most of the bystanders, of which there were a considerable number. Regina took the hint. The third was clearly in command, as it were, and also the youngest, wearing a familiar speckled tan uniform. It was coated in filth and dried blood, and smelled of it, almost as if he'd worn it for the entire campaign. He was unarmed, and looked as if he'd just woken up.

The second militiaman stepped forward. "Minor disturbance, Lieutenant Colonel. We'll deal with it," he said, his words professional and measured, a look of growing dread on his features; all of it completely ignored by the man he was addressing.

"How many times do I have to say it?" the lieutenant colonel said, closing the distance between him and Regina in an instant. "Shouting at me didn't work; now look at the mess you've made. This is intolerable; you're only making it worse for yourselves. I tell you again, I won't have it," the officer said, gesturing wildly at the assembled crowd. "No, I'm done with this. All of it." He looked at the two baffled militiamen, pointing at the first. "As of now, _you_ are in command. I'm going back to bed."

"Wait, Andrey, don't be so stupid," the first militiaman said. "She's not one of the locals. Look."

"I don't care who she is," Andrey declared. "Whatever you want, I don't have it. Are you a spy? You want me to be sleep-deprived when the army arrives, is that it? We'll see about that."

The militiaman took drastic measures, seizing Andrey by the shoulders and shaking him back to a state resembling consciousness. "Sir, you're embarrassing us. Nobody's been shouting at your door for four hours, and I'm telling you: she's not—"

But Andrey jumped back with an alarmed shout. He was definitely awake now, and fumbled at his hip for a weapon that wasn't there. "I've seen you before. Look at your arm. That's a rather unique look, don't you think? And the hand, too, that's not so dissimilar."

Regina was also becoming uncomfortably aware that she'd seen this man before, and not in a particularly pleasant manner. Not a single other person present had a look of anything other than confusion on their faces. The tan uniform gave it away, ruined or not, as did his distinctively cultivated accent. He sounded as if he'd just woken up, but his eyes were strangely focused and his movements measured.

"Well, spit it out," Andrey said. "You're Dmitri's woman, aren't you? We've been waiting for five days. You cut it a bit fine, don't you think?" His tone shifted in an instant, now almost deferential. "Tell me he's sent you here to save us. Helicopters, a convoy, I don't care, we'll take it. We'll take anything."

"You should take a shower," the first militiaman muttered, but even he was looking expectant.

Regina just shrugged. "I can save you, sure, but I wasn't sent here by anyone. I'm looking for a friend, actually, in a manner of speaking. They call him Kosra, and I think he's your boss."

"You can save us?" Andrey said mildly. "At least you're not a spy. Lucky for you. I'd have had you shot on the spot if you'd tried to pretend Dmitri sent you."

"You're not as stupid as you look," Regina said. "He'll just leave you to die, we both know, no matter what he says to your face."

"I don't know about that. He didn't leave you to die, did he? It's not his operation, anyway, as you'd have known if you were any good at your job."

"It's not? Don't you have a radio? I hear there's a shift in policy direction, and smashing up every town you find might not quite match up with their new rhetoric. But it's your call. I don't know why you're here, Lieutenant Colonel."

Andrey hadn't heard it, evidently, glancing at one of his men and receiving a telling nod. He sighed, rubbed the back of his head, and kept smiling. "You're right, you don't, and you can't believe everything you hear on the radio. It'll get you in all kinds of trouble. I do like what you've done with your hair. It might have been all the blood, but black wasn't your colour."

That was one way to clarify the matter. What need did an irregular militia have of officers in the official uniform of the Borginian army? The only one Regina could recall had been present at the outpost in Merestan, and had taken his orders from Mirzin. As was continually made clear with these frustrating little hints, this was the same officer. He was likely their only officer.

"I told you this already, Andrey," Regina said, ignoring every one of his hints. "Did you find that name in a novel? I'd better not ask. Listen, I'm not a member of any military, or militia, or anything else. All I want is to have a chat with your boss, if he's even here, and in return you won't have to deal with six hours of artillery fire. I was never here, and neither were you."

"Not a soldier, you say? You have a funny way of showing it," Andrey said, but he gestured for his men to stand down. "Have you considered that _I_ might be the boss?" He tapped his shoulder, but the point was ruined. Where proof of rank had once been only tattered cloth remained. Fortunately he realised this himself and sighed again. "Well, you're right. I'm not. I'm supervising on behalf of . . . actually I don't really know. Command haven't contacted me in two months. "

"Why am I not surprised?" Regina asked. "Funding this little insurgency was always a risk; I never did get how they justified it. Odds are they're going to leave you here and pretend this never happened. Take it from someone's who's been there."

Andrey laughed at that. "You're probably right. Guess we'll have to find another way out, but, I have to say, I certainly wouldn't ever have had you executed. Seeing you again in the light, well, it'd be nothing less than criminal. I'm afraid to say some of us do take orders. "

"How generous. What about the rest they brought in with me?"

"We didn't shoot them. Why would we?" Andrey said. "Well, maybe we did and maybe we didn't. You'll never know for sure, so you might as well forget it. "

The introductory assessment was over. Disappointed or relieved, the townspeople dispersed again, most having decided that Regina was one of _them_, or at least was sufficiently indistinguishable from their perspective. That was fine. She wasn't there to save them or their town. Instead she followed Andrey, who was still unarmed, one hand in his pocket, toward the town's centre.

Regina actually did believe him, to a degree. They hadn't butchered the populace here, and aside from the combatants the people of Merestan hadn't been excessively brutalised. Why assume the worst? Even so, she was increasingly wary. It was difficult to say why. As far as enemy officers went he was amiable enough. That didn't conceal the look in his eyes, those of a caged animal desperate for hope of escape, hope he expected her to deliver. Neither did he conceal the way his gaze lingered for longer than was polite, nor his markedly familiar tone.

Concealing that uneasiness became increasing difficult as they progressed. The artillery threat was a severe one, but it wasn't half the comfort that a fully functional body would be. Andrey knew all of it, she could tell. Anybody who'd been long fighting for survival, especially on the front lines, gained a remarkable instinct for fear. He was gaunt and young and rather erratic, but a seasoned veteran nonetheless. It showed in his eyes, inviting her to deny it, but he fell quiet and said nothing more for some time.

The first detour came when Andrey held out one hand and held her back. "We'll take a left turn," he said, leaving it at that. Regina didn't need to ask. There was an edge to his voice, and she had her instincts too. There were no crowds on that road, and no guards, but a sickly-sweet scent in the air even with the wind at their backs. Both the pavement and road were heavily stained; any corpses had long since been dragged off.

One question did come to mind. "Was it self-defence?"

Andrey stopped where he was. "They made it into town, saw us, and someone started shooting. I don't know why." He paused and looked back at the road, then kept walking. "I think they were ours. The officer had one of those ceremonial uniforms, the deep blue, I don't know what you call it. Whoever they were, it doesn't matter now. Take the left turn and forget it."

"You really don't know why you're here, do you?" Regina asked. A small crowd came into view gathered around a covered patio. "Is there anybody left who does know what they're doing? They didn't where I came from either." The crowd were listening to the same broadcast, she realised. Again, they were discussing a set of nebulous negotiations as if that word had some intrinsic meaning even when stripped of all context.

Andrey said nothing, as if he hadn't heard, but slowed to a halt in front of the crowd. "You do. You came here to see _him_, didn't you? Kosra knows why we're here. If we did kill one of Mirzin's officers, he'll cover it up. I don't get that guy. Where did he come from, and what does he want? But he runs this place, and we're stuck here, so keep that in mind."

"Like I said. I wasn't here, and neither were you. We're all hiding something," Regina said, but he stayed where he was as if debating something with himself. "You mind telling me something? How did they justify this to the masses? Listening to that radio, it's like nothing's changed."

"Easily enough," Andrey said. "What was left of the military said they prevented a coup and turned over that fortress to the _people_, as they put it. Everyone high command tried to paint as a traitor, except for you people, came back as heroes. The lieutenant general keeps the army in line; Mirzin heads up the civil administration. Nice and balanced. Not everyone sees it that way, but what can you do?"

"And people just put up with it," Regina said. "You don't feel the chains until you shake them around. Wait, so I'm not on the wanted list anymore?"

"Neither are we. One advantage of playing along for this long. There's a lot of talk about reunification, you know. You're all killing each other over nothing and people are tired of it. Even for us this is a bit bloody."

"Take it up with your boss," Regina said. "You said you're a lieutenant colonel, right? I didn't see this coming when I met Lieutenant Colonel Anders. What sane person would've? Don't make the same mistake; nothing will ever change while you're letting her call the shots, or anyone else either."

"Now I'm confused," Andrey said. "Who's this? Please, go on. It's inspiring to hear someone of my lowly rank became so fearsome. I'll have to take notes."

Regina stopped in the middle of the street. If he was joking or lying, it was impossible to see any sign of either. "You're telling me you haven't been taking your orders from a creepy pale woman who always knows everything you're going to do before you've done it? Not especially tall, long blonde hair, unhealthily thin? I _know _Mirzin does everything she tells him to."

Andrey turned back, almost bemused. "Look, I'd remember someone like that. Creepy and pale is exactly how I like my women, not that you asked. I'm not calling you a liar. Kosra never told me where he was getting his information, and he hates this Mirzin bastard. He never told me why. Never tells me anything. But as the man on the street sees it it's the military and the bureaucrats, and none of the figureheads are blondes. Sorry."

That was the most perplexing thing he could have said. Regina didn't bother arguing. He wasn't lying, and spoke with more candour than most. Fatigue and bitterness had their way of doing that, and everyone she saw here had seen their share of both. Nothing ever made any sense. The price paid for understanding had a curious similarity to certainty. They all saw it. Were these people even her enemies? They didn't know either, and Regina came to think Kosra would see it that way too. He understood more still; would be left to shoulder the heavy burden that such understanding brought with it.

Dylan's observation overtook even that, after a time. What kind of formation was this? More than once they passed a group of militiamen drinking, often with the townspeople themselves. Guards were present, but there weren't many, and most were sitting down with their rifles next to them. One street had been taken over by the most raucous group of partiers she'd seen in years. The power had been cut, so evidently the music was being played live, and not very well, but there was a decent crowd wandering those inner streets.

Andrey even had to shake off a group of clearly drunk militiamen insisting he, and Regina too, join them for a round of cards and quickly vanishing drinks. "Official business," he said, pushing one woman aside. "Yes, yes, I swear we'll all be saved, but only if you get out of my way. And forget her. She's nobody."

"I'm not trying to do your job," Regina said after that, "but if I had a real army hunting me I might actually be preparing for a fight. The navy's here now, but you didn't know that."

"A fight?" Andrey said, laughing again. "We're done. Take a look around. What are we even doing here? We were promised support, but do you see it? You can't threaten us now, so just be glad I've taken a liking to you. Six hours of artillery or not, what do I care? Now take your own advice. Stop trying to do my job and watch."

"Maybe you don't care," Regina said, "but if I told even one of your men you were going to get them all killed for something so small? That doesn't usually go down well. Your life, or theirs? You'd be left in a ditch with a bullet through the head."

"Good answer. He'll like you, I can tell," Andrey said. "For the record, I'm a civilised man from a civilised land, so don't look so nervous. And look at that. We're nearly there. I do hope you can make this work. Kosra's not a brute like the rest of us, especially the first Kosra, and even me, but he's not had an easy life. Don't make it any harder on him."

"I've never wanted to make anyone's life harder. There's the problem. Whether I want it or not never seems to make much difference," Regina said, checking both her watches. She held up one hand. "Hold on, we'd better stop here."

Andrey watched with a look of bemusement, but to his credit said nothing, as Regina threw open the bag and reloaded her flare gun. A bright red flash lit up the sky, visible to the entire town and its surrounds, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Whether you want it or not makes no difference, huh?" Andrey said mildly. "Looks to me like you just bought all these lovely people a few more hours, unless I'm very much mistaken. Sequenced flares fired at times only you know. We can't run, we can't touch you. Smart."

"I have my moments. Now stop delaying. I'm tired of searching for men who might as well not exist. Find Kosra, and do it now."


	36. Chapter 36

In the town's centre, already the most obvious target, all the fuel the militia could find had been gathered and set alight. Marked solely by indolence in the face of circumstances that ought to have inspired outright panic, those gathered around the fire responded to the arrival of two newcomers with similar enthusiasm.

"This is a lot of work for a stack of burnt furniture," Regina said, gesturing at the spiralling column above. "Not that I'm complaining. It's just not as fearsome as I'd expected."

Her escort, dressed in what could charitably be called the uniform of a Borginian officer, came to an inadvertent halt. "I see how this works," Andrey said slowly. "The foreigners round up a few undesirables—even that once, mind you—and of course you assume it ended in some sort of orgy of violence. The savages must've shot them all and burned the corpses. You expected it again here, didn't you? No, don't deny it."

One thing couldn't be denied. This was a man who would unleash a deluge of words at the slightest prompting, if only to drown out any opposition. Or perhaps only to keep himself afloat. "Can you really blame me?" Regina asked, giving it a moment's thought. "Look, forget I said anything. Your restraint is very impressive."

"Do you think we enjoyed it?" Andrey asked, looking at the flames ahead. "I was an officer holding against a siege. There's no room for debate in that scenario. Not then, and not now."

Definitely the second interpretation. "Don't worry about it," Regina said. "Guilty conscience or not, you do what you have to do. I'll do the same."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you don't have to justify yourself to me. Just relax, would you? It'll all work itself out, one way or another."

Or so it had up until then. Half the buildings here had been had been burned to the ground, though not for any apparent reason. The few occupants left had congregated around the central plaza. These were the veterans, but they weren't preparing. Not to fight, and not to flee. Several self-important militiamen were actually sitting around with maps and radios, but they were in the minority. Someone else was struggling to play a guitar. It was remarkably tranquil.

Andrey soon ruined that, shouting at a friend or two, gesturing at Regina to hurry and follow, but her attention was drawn to a figure sitting away from the rest. This woman was incredibly gaunt, and pale to a degree that could only imply illness. Noticing their arrival, her apathetic gaze slowly shifted up. A moment more and she lost interest, eyes drifting back down to the flames.

"This stupid thing's broken, I'm telling you," a loud voice said. "And so is everything else. If they can't find us—"

"Hand it over," a second man said. Andrey had already managed to vanish without excuse or introduction. All of them, even the pale woman, turned instead to watch those two men. Mildly irritated at this subdued reception—discourteous was the first word that came to mind—Regina found Andrey again without much effort. He gestured only for silence.

The music started again, this time slowly, each note combining in a series known only by the musician, but unlike the other man's deplorable attempt this was played with some measure of skill, promising to bring a sombre mood back to the forefront. It was obvious the musician had no formal training. It was equally obvious that he knew perfection was out of his grasp, but that he had no concern for perfection.

A minute longer and the music slowed to a stop. The musician had observed the entire scene in that minute, and the moment he was satisfied he handed the guitar back to his companion. "Today's not my day," he said, clapping the man on the back. He stood up, towering over all present. "Nor yours, Lieutenant Colonel. You're useless if you haven't slept in three days."

"And you're useless if they can shell you from fifty miles away," Andrey said. He took a step to the side and pointed at Regina. "On a completely unrelated matter, meet my lovely new friend. She just stumbled into town, nearly shot me with that flare gun, and _demanded_ to see you. You'll recall the four times I told you this would happen."

"Everyone you meet wants to see me and you never stop to ask why. Burn that old uniform, that's my advice." This energetic man became the centre of attention the second he stood up. "So someone down here does have a sense of humour. What took you so long? I admit, I was starting to worry." Stepping off to one side, Andrey gave a faint shrug and joined the rest of them as spectators. He had little choice.

Any doubts as to the purpose of this journey faded then. In Merestan this man had been a distant and threatening figure, almost inhuman. Here the same figure returned, sitting with his own people, not such a beast at all. How easily it could have been different. This was the perfect embodiment of a man who'd lived, covered in thick muscle and countless scars, taller than any other, and he carried it well. His was a look of amusement, even curiosity.

"I wouldn't worry now," Regina said, mildly disconcerted already. "Sorry to keep you waiting, but I'm not supposed to be here and neither are you. At least nobody has to get tied up this time. We can both be gone by morning."

For a long moment Kosra only stared at her; then he burst into laughter. "You thought you'd just sneak in while nobody was looking? That didn't work too well last time, did it?" He raised one hand, gesturing for silence. "No need to say it. I appreciate that you didn't gloat. It's not often I get to see one of my old friends without someone listening at the door. Used to be the wife, now it's the boss; when it's not her—well, right now it's no-one at all. Good timing."

To hear him speak that little hint held no significance at all, but there it was nonetheless. "Looking at you now," Regina said, as if unconcerned, "I'd say you're going to need a little more than just a social visit. You might have been better off under supervision. I won't gloat if you won't lie, how about that?"

One hand held to his side, for the second time Kosra gestured for silence. "Who said I was a liar? You really shouldn't be so quick to judge," he said. "And I don't recall saying it was _her_ who sent us here. That was someone else, someone respectable. I'll show you the orders if you like, pretty blue envelope and all."

A generous offer, and one that didn't need an answer. This man was a wall. Nothing showed in his expression, and nothing was revealed by his words. Certainly both were exuberant enough. The actual content of his speech seemed to fall away as he swept from side to side, joking one moment, hinting at secrets the next, sharing an amused glance with his companions but a second later. Blunt language paired with sweeping gestures: he convinced more with actions than words, as if even the slightest deception was beyond him.

All this for what amounted to little more than pleasantries. Few present seemed to understand even that much. Neither did Regina let herself be taken in. There was something else behind that cheerful manner, and as she well knew herself: deception was never beyond a man who concealed even his own name.

Kosra soon cleared his throat in preparation for an announcement. "Listen up. This is one of my old friends. You know how it is. Don't complain, don't get jealous: she's brought our ticket out of here on a satin pillow, I promise, so go along with it." Betraying nothing, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Make this convincing. You don't know who else could be listening."

And after that he took the time to introduce her to each person present. Who was this unusual visitor? Nobody at all, and the likely key to their survival. No-one had the chance to question that logic. Through the sheer force of Kosra's own charisma their many doubts were forcibly found and smashed, and the usual veil of falsehoods remained fixed in place.

At the end of that hour Regina was sitting around the fire with the rest of them, listening to a heated argument on one side, watching Andrey desperately try to impress the pale woman on another, with little success, and trying to piece together the meaning of what she saw.

There was something else beneath that calm atmosphere. It was subtle, a sort of tension, almost directionless. Kosra himself didn't return for some time, speaking to the map readers one moment, the guards another, a few of the more courageous townsmen the next, always glancing back as if he and Regina knew something the others didn't. That was true enough, seemingly more so than she'd anticipated.

This force had been pressed into military service quickly enough, but it hadn't been their initial role here. The toll of transition had been paid in blood. To risk so much on the hope that someone, and an abstract someone at that, would think to respond to their transgressions with speech rather than bullets. It was nothing less than reckless.

That was if all was as it seemed. The enormous fire, for instance. Borginia was mostly tropical, and no doubt the flames were a welcome defence against even this mild winter. True as that was, a sky choked with black smoke served as a rather effective signal beacon, wanted or not. For as easy as it had been to find this fighting force, one known for being near impossible to find, that seemed a disquieting realisation. They wanted to be found.

They had been found. Regina resolved to maintain that distance, that reserve, until she understood why down to the last detail. That approach seemed optimal. And, as it was, this charade was not an unpleasant one, tedious though it quickly began to feel. Only the pale woman looked similarly bored, now staring at Regina without break.

When Andrey passed again Regina seized his arm and pulled him a stop. "Hey, who is that?" she asked, nodding slightly in the other woman's direction. Andrey was immediately suspicious, but she held him where he was. "Tell me and I'll give you some advice."

After a moment of defiance did Andrey kneel down, if in a ridiculously conspiratorial manner. "Her name's Miranda," he said. "She's from the city. Lived in the citadel itself, as I hear it, but now she's one of Kosra's special guests. She's been here a while, but you won't hear me complaining."

"Why? You're living the roughest life there is, and she doesn't exactly look the part. Looks ready to collapse, actually."

"You'd better take that back," Andrey said. "Just between us, I could marry that woman. Look at that sad smile, the quiet dignity, and you should hear her speak. The intellect, the knowledge, and what—"

"I get the picture," Regina said. "Just be careful. I don't recognise her, but it's never this easy. And here's your advice. You think she doesn't know what you want when you hover around like that? Try some subtlety. Are you there for that intellect, or are you there for—"

"Oh, I'm there for everything," Andrey said, standing up again. "And you should've told me you were Kosra's friend. More than once, I mean. Talk about well connected."

It wasn't much longer before the second flare, a bright green, lit up the evening sky. Slow steps scraped through the gravel behind and Regina paused, completely motionless. They were finally alone, well away from the fire, and she knew it was him.

"One chance to run," Kosra said. "One chance to let them think you were dead. What did you do with it? You're as hopeless as I am."

"See this?" Regina asked, kneeling to reload the flare gun. "They would've turned this place into a crater if I hadn't told them who you were. Maybe I should ask you the same. You had a chance to run, and what did you do with it?"

"The same thing I've always done." Kosra said. "There's always a reason. Never doubt that."

"At least I only put myself at risk," Regina said, standing up again with comparative ease. With the theatrics finished Kosra's movements were slow, laboured, and they both saw it. If he wasn't injured he had been in the recent past. "Maybe you had your reasons, sure, but they're not whatever bullshit excuses you told these people."

"You're wasting time. Provocation, sabotage: you already know how this works. So do they."

"You told me you weren't a liar," Regina said. "The guy Borginia sent to watch you? Is he oblivious, or just uninformed? You didn't even want me to tell them why I'm here. I don't get it. Why lie to them now? What's the point?"

"That _is _the point. They know what they need to know, and they're better off that way. And why not? What they do see is real enough, more than you seem to think."

The sounds of laughter back at the camp were all that was left to break the silence. The sun was setting, and the air was quickly growing cool. He said it with little emotion, as if it were routine, and perhaps it was.

"I suppose you'd have me believe what they're saying on that radio isn't just propaganda."

"Why should it be?" Kosra asked. "Those figureheads can do what they like so long as they forget why they're there. Maybe to you they're just puppets. The man on the street? Maybe he'll tell you they're heroes. Maybe he'll tell you he doesn't give half a shit what they are. Can't say it bothers me either way."

"Was this how they sold it back in Borginia?" Regina asked. "Come and be cheap muscle for some foreign military coup: see the sights, loot a few empty apartments. Maybe you'll get shelled from fifty miles away, but it'll be worth it because . . . wait, nobody would sign up for that. Where's that nationalism?"

"Oh, I made sure to stamp that out," Kosra said. "I gave up pretending my country's any better than yours . . . well, I never really believed it to begin with. Lofty ideals here, grand shows of rebellion there. It's all a bit melodramatic, don't you think? We see the bigger picture. That's the difference."

"You're dragging people into this who had nothing to do with it," Regina said. "That's the real difference. What's changed, exactly? It's like Hereson all over again: when you're found out the masses won't hear of it. Not anymore. At least he showed his face in public."

Kosra just laughed. "I figure by the time they realise it won't matter. Not to me, anyway. Nor to you, if you're smart. You'll never believe the lie, and why should you? But anyone who can prove what we really did won't live through the year. Eliza doesn't exist, neither do I, and you're supposed to be dead."

"If she's so eager to stop existing she can stick a gun in her mouth and leave the rest of us out of it."

"You think we're bad? Showmanship, that's what it really is. People like her never live long lives, and that's how they like it. A bit of excitement, soon finished, and then what? The scum crawl out of the walls at times like this. Some of them . . . you'd better hope I'm there to clean up the mess when it's done."

"You won't be if you keep this up," Regina said. He just shrugged, perhaps the least adequate response imaginable. "Fine. Then you'll have no trouble explaining this mess. You do realise you'd have died about four hours ago if not for me?"

"I'm so overwhelmed with joy that I can't quite decide how to thank you," Kosra said, one hand held to his side. "No, this mess was a favour for a friend. He shipped some associates of mine who knew a bit too much up north for the winter. He did that, I did this. Mutual trust, or something. We knew someone would take the bait." He turned aside, glancing at the hills. "Nicely done, by the way. You've got your own friend up on that hill. He calls in the flares; if he doesn't, this place goes up in smoke. Only works because you're expendable." He looked back at her. "You didn't tell them, did you? And you ask why we're keeping secrets."

"Very impressive, for what it's worth. So who's this friend, and—"

"What's the price?" Kosra said mildly. He looked back at the fire. "I hate intrigue. Really, I do. Leave them out of it, and take what you like. You should've been here days ago. I really doubt you're the only one who's seen through this charade."

"And I think I finally see it," Regina said. "Why she wanted you. Why she trusted you. No, don't deny it. Hopeless, are we? Maybe you're right. There are some answers I need, answers only you would have. I expect I'll regret this, but after that you can do as you like."

At first the only response she received was a look of curious bemusement. "I could believe that," Kosra said. "That said, given our happy history . . ." He gestured at her scarred arm without much enthusiasm. "If you're thinking of doing what I'd be doing in your position, feel free to try. It wouldn't be easy, but I did just get out of the hospital. If not, I have to tell you this'd be the first time someone I've strapped to a chair has come back and not tried to knife me. It's not natural."

"It's ridiculous, that's what it is," Regina said. "You'd actually prefer it if I tried to kill you? There you go. I won't give you the satisfaction, so just forget it. Here's an alternative suggestion, one we can both appreciate. Use that artillery to fake your death. Fake all your deaths, at least for a while. I have a letter, if you—"

"From some self-important official, I'm sure. I have enough of them on my end. No, I do believe you. It's touching, really it is. My friend has a similar message, but I'm not risking that until you're on your way out. It's not for you, anyway, not unless you've had a change of heart and want to put on a nice blue uniform." He finally hesitated, growing quieter. "The second you leave. Not before. We do this quietly, you understand? Eliza wouldn't care, she'd just laugh if she saw this, but she's already all that's standing between me and a bullet. Some of your old friends would not like this."

There was something else behind that composure, something more than was said. More than would ever be said. Regina was tired of it. Every last thought or deed that deserved expression seemed destined to be perpetually locked away, as if they were something shameful, and in their place the most loathsome acts were given voice if only to fill the void.

"Have it your way, then," she said softly. "All I need are a few answers . . . though I admit, the self-important official who made this happen wants more than that. The _other _self-important official just wants you dead. They have their reasons, but I have mine too. Nobody here will be harmed, not if I can help it. I can promise you that much."

"And I'll take you at your word," Kosra said. "But I ought to refuse to answer one damn question just to see what you do about it."

"I already learned that lesson," Regina said, "How about this? I could tell your friends everything you won't, then have them force you to answer. Or maybe I'll get what I want, get back to the fleet, and tell them to start firing anyway. Maybe there is no fleet. You wouldn't disappoint this friend, would you? There's only one way to find out, so don't try and bullshit me now by pretending you'll take it. You were never going to take it."

Kosra laughed at that, and finally with genuine feeling. "Now you're thinking like one of us. I say get what you want and let the bombs fly. It's not like we can stop you. That's the smart move, but you'll still throw it away like any idiot. And for what? I don't think sentiment is worth much now."

"And I don't think you believe your own rhetoric," Regina said. "Stop pretending to be something you're not, and I'll do the same."

Kosra had no answer to that either. They were at an impasse, had perhaps been there the entire time. Something was still wrong, and the time for blunt honesty refused to come—or it was just fear disguised as indifference? It was far easier to hint at veiled wishes than to allow even a moment's vulnerability, and that was what was required of them both.

But the sudden crunch of boots on gravel prevented any response at all. Kosra turned back with impressive speed, a blank slate once more. The runner skidded to a stop in front of them. "Unexpected company, sir," he said in a strangled whisper, pointing back at the northern road. Two cars had just turned the corner.

"Get her out of sight," Kosra said. Pushing fatigue and pain aside, he left to meet the uniformed officials emerging from the cars without another word. The pretence of disinterest was made and kept, and extended until it became reality. With it came the usual rewards. Any semblance of relief, of certainty, had already faded.

The messenger, Andrey again, threw an arm around Regina's shoulder and walked her back to the fire as if they were the very best of friends. "We're getting closer by the hour," he said, more cheerful than ever, but his arms were tense, and his eyes lacked all humour.

II

They were former ceremonial guardsmen, well known as the unit most extreme in both politics and methodology. All four of the officers, three men and one woman, wore indigo. One more in a suit waited at the back. They spoke to Kosra alone.

For Kosra to so easily accept the reality of the situation was generous enough. Expecting him to bribe or murder four officers to cover it up was something else entirely. And this was not a unit that could be bribed. The systematic slaughter of the civilian and military elite at western command proved that. They fought for higher ideals, and it wasn't hard to imagine they'd been amply rewarded for it.

Few of the militiamen were comfortable either. Most had put their weapons aside and weren't moving unless they had to. Not for the first time Regina looked up at the thick column of smoke above in a different light. Would Dylan have seen? It was pointless to even speculate.

Instead she watched Andrey's reactions, obscured by the fire, especially as he murmured frantically to two compatriots who soon ran east. He was genuinely unnerved, and that was as a promising a sign as any.

But relief turned to fear as he pulled back, behind the fire, and seized her by the arm with a look of growing dread. "Turn back, hide your face; we'll head for the southern patrol—"

"Well, our arrival couldn't have come at a better time," a woman said. "You've lost about half your number, it seems to me."

Regina forced him to a halt. Nothing could be any more incriminating than attempting to leave now. They knelt down again, facing anything but the speaker.

"Most of them are on patrol," Kosra said. "We're being tracked by a detachment in the east. That's how this works, if you hadn't realised."

"No doubt. What was Jean thinking? If I didn't know better I'd have thought he sent you here to die."

"He has a better imagination than you do. That's why he's the lieutenant general and you're . . . which costume are you wearing today?"

"You've been without news for too long. Forget his medals. Jean's legions are here and he insists on lingering in a land that despises him, as if he were actually doing something of worth. Incompetent is the word," the officer said, spinning back, suddenly rather enthusiastic. "Or duplicitous, perhaps. We shall see. And I'm not here at all. Only a humble diplomat headed south, and alone."

"I heard they were sending one man, no uniforms. You meet neither of those conditions, if you'll forgive the comment."

"You shouldn't listen to rumours," the officer said. "We'll be going directly south, just the two of us, but you are right in a certain sense. This time it's a little more serious. Richard's going alone, or so they think. This is a favour for _her_."

At this point Regina couldn't resist the urge to look. This woman was completely unfamiliar. Her uniform was a deep indigo, covered in various emblems and insignias, but she carried herself as if that were entirely irrelevant. If she was any older than forty Regina couldn't see it. Kosra made no attempt to disguise how distasteful he found it to have to tolerate her presence at all.

Only the very last of them, the red-headed man in the ill-fitting suit, paused when he reached the fire. There was something decidedly familiar about him, and he slowed to an almost thoughtless stop, a look of weariness giving way to another reaction, quickly suppressed. Regina tried without any success to recall where she'd seen him before. He turned away again as if he'd seen nothing at all.

The officer noticed anyway. She seemed to see everything at once, and followed his gaze without a moment's delay. Kosra's expression turned to one of visible exasperation, one hand reaching into a pocket. Regina saw the message hidden within: leave it all to him.

"And what's this?" the officer asked. "Your ranking officer looks half dead, and his friend is here despite orders not to associate with the locals. You can't help yourselves, can you?" A moment passed and she looked at the supposed diplomat, almost bored. "Do you know either of them?"

"The lieutenant colonel," her companion quickly said. "We shared a hospital wing for a few days after my, err, well, moment of difficulty."

Andrey was concealing a look of bewilderment, Regina could tell. He'd never met this man in his life, and she knew the diplomat's eyes had been fixed on her. The officer seemed to believe it, though it was much harder to judge her reactions. She didn't seem in the habit of saying what she actually thought.

"Is that so?" she asked, looking back at Andrey. "Did you spend time on the suicide ward as well? Forget it. Liebert's orders have been rescinded. First Secretary Mirzin finds this entire affair to be—how did he put it? The most ridiculous expedition ever ordered? I'll let him ask the questions. No more raiding, no more provocation."

"Brigadier, is it?" Kosra asked. "You didn't drag your miserable little detachment out of obscurity by avoiding provocation. Why start now?"

"Don't be so bitter. As far as foreigners go you'd have to be my favourite, but you've done enough damage. One man, alone and unguarded, making a desperate plea for peace. Inspiring, don't you think? Not if you insist on ruining the theme."

"I'll do anything you like so long as you wipe that smirk off your face, Razin," Kosra said. "You didn't think this up, nobody remembers the guy you replaced, and nobody'll remember you either. We both know better."

"The two of us and nobody else. We're not meant to be remembered, we're meant to hide at the back and give the rest of them a shove in the right direction. Why are you making me explain something you already know?"

That was an uncomfortably accurate observation. Kosra gave no reply at all, which was a natural enough response to allay the brigadier's suspicions. Aiding in this was a shot fired in the far east, quickly followed by another. Discarded rifles were pulled close; ammunition checked; orders issued in low murmurs.

"Needless antagonism," Brigadier Razin said. "Was that your idea of irony? It's a bit dramatic for my tastes. Or yours, I thought. Theatre is perhaps too bourgeois a choice of diversion, not quite in favour at the moment. Do keep that in mind."

That observation couldn't be faulted either. A few isolated shots had turned to a full firefight, or so it seemed from there. All present fell silent to listen, and Regina used the opportunity to look at the newcomers again. A sickening sense of dread was the only reward. The brigadier wasn't looking east at all, but directly at her.

Whether she knew or not, she said nothing. Neither did she make a single comment on the other outsider Miranda, though she stood out even more than Regina did. There was no attempt to hide her presence, and she watched the brigadier with the same bored look as she gave everything else. Richard had looked at no-one else since he first saw her.

"You picked a bad time to make an appearance," Kosra said. "And I don't take orders from Mirzin, not without—"

"He said you might be stubborn," Brigadier Razin said. "He also said staying here is tantamount to suicide. If you did stay he'd feel obligated to send immediate notice to your next of kin. A daughter, I think he said?" She shrugged, almost apologetic. "Sorry. I'm just the messenger."

The need for the hasty apology was obvious. Kosra looked as if he could seize her by the throat, all injury forgotten. "We'll leave in the morning," he said instead, forcing the words out. "And I'll be asking my own questions when I get back. Stay on the southern road. Any further east and you'll run into a regiment or two. What do you think they'd do with a prize like you?"

"Don't worry about that either. I dragged a full battalion out here just for you. My own men, the very best. An hour more and you'll all be saved. And, please, there's no need for formality now. Call me Liana."

In an instant this woman looked the part of a human being again, not the living incarnation of a rank and title. Regina didn't believe it, and neither did anyone else. Fortunately the frequency of the gunshots coming from the east was beginning to become too much to ignore, though they'd all done so admirably until then.

"Then I'll take the help," Kosra said, "and I'll tell you something just as useful. My way of saying thanks. Let's go."

At first it looked as though his guest would refuse. She had the air of someone who'd risen to power both quickly and quietly, and no doubt the need to prove her worth was at its most urgent. Fortunately she didn't protest, though she seemed entirely unconcerned, and retreated back to the car with Kosra.

Regina pulled herself up in an instant, using the sudden rush of activity as cover, and took the opposite direction entirely. Nothing about that encounter felt right to her. Was the vanguard of Gail's force attacking? But the timing was completely off. Was it just an excuse to remove them from sight, or did Kosra intend to—? That would be suicide, and against all sense, and though Andrey was dutifully following his motives were just as obscure. But why? This wasn't as it seemed either.

The answer soon made itself apparent. As they reached the far side of the plaza, near the empty houses, Andrey burst into laughter, falling to his knees in the attempt to conceal it. "They need to make me a full colonel," he said, trying to catch his breath and failing at that too. "No, make _me _the brigadier. I just saved your ass, and mine too."

Regina turned around on the spot, forcing her racing thoughts to slow with more success than Andrey, or anyone else either. The tranquil atmosphere was completely ruined. Now they looked the perfect image of a small force mobilising for combat, but this too, like everything else, had taken on a sudden disingenuous quality. She was tired of pretending not to see it.

"You did this, didn't you?" Regina asked, kneeling down at his side, seizing his wrist and forcibly returning his attention. "There's no way Gail's men are here yet."

"I thought we might need a distraction," Andrey said, finally in control of himself. "So I told our eastern patrols to start shooting up the place. And here I thought I was saved when you showed up. Not likely. The army's one thing, but these guys have been here from the start. The very day the old Kosra got his throat cut and we found ourselves looking to overthrow the regime."

"What a wonderful coincidence," Regina said, glancing back east. "Theatrical, that's the word for it. Her word, actually. Kosra told me himself: they'll kill you if you know too much. Yes, that does mean you. You specifically."

Andrey let out a rather undignified moan. "Tell me we can just smuggle you out and pretend this never happened."

"No, I fucked it up." That certainly distracted him from his self-pity. "I should've just asked . . . why can't I ever say what I'm thinking?" Turning back, Regina looked at him for answers. "I'm not going anywhere yet. Half an hour, a little more, and the brigadier will see that flare. Do you think she'll cooperate if I have to threaten her?"

"These people don't cooperate," Andrey said softly. "They'd have to let you go, but . . . well, this doesn't look good. Not for us."

The plan had fallen through, as it always did. "Kosra was right," Regina said, looking back at the fire with contempt. She ran a hand through her hair, the other curling involuntarily. "I should've seen this coming. Not _this_, but . . . no, forget I said anything.

"I wouldn't panic," Andrey said, "not while our illustrious leader can still swindle us a way out of this. That's what he does. But if he can't, I'll warn you now: my rank notwithstanding, I won't give that order. Not for you."

"And I wouldn't expect you to," Regina said. "Don't make that suggestion again. Besides, who's panicking?" That was received dubiously to say to least, but this time she persisted. "Don't look at me like that. Listen, for now we'll feign ignorance, we'll give Kosra the time he needs to smooth this over, and we'll get out of sight. Let them make the first move."

Perhaps the lieutenant colonel who'd been in this filthy line of work for years was too demoralized to think clearly, or perhaps Regina's tone wasn't quite conducive to optimism. She preferred not to dwell on it. And what better time for a hasty withdrawal? The first of the actual relief force in all its splendour, transport trucks and indigo uniforms both, was arriving in full. However illusory its causes, the unrest was quickly turning violent.

The streets were bathed in darkness, as felt ever more familiar, growing cramped and oppressive. The traitorous ceremonial guardsmen in their striking indigo were here again; the skies were filled with smoke, broken only by beacons of fires. A sickly sense of dread grew with each step. If Dylan assumed this was a trap, that Kosra himself had called the guardsmen—but that was entirely implausible.

They soon made it back to the exact same hillside road. Regina thought she saw the crashed truck, but it was so dark that no judgement could be made. Dylan would have the same difficulty, and he had to know. That she had made contact, had found a tentative ally, and that they were headed back inside willingly. Distant and inhuman indeed. There was little choice but trust now.

"It's too early," Regina murmured, kneeling down to check one watch. She threw the other at Andrey, who confirmed it with exacting detail. "Eleven minutes early. If he sticks to the _exact _plan . . . but he's not so stupid as to do that."

A third flare shot out into the sky nonetheless, a vibrant green. Andrey said nothing, didn't even move, and suddenly looked rather stiff. In what looked like a fit of indecision his hand darted down, pulled a small cylinder from his belt, and flipped a switch on the side. A thin beam of light shone up and into the hills. Noticing Regina's bemused look, he tried to force a smile. "Your buddy's up there, right? He'd better damn well get the point. This is terrible."

"How can one man complain so much? I could've just shown up and forced you to help me. First I'd cut someone else's throat to get you in the mood, and then . . . yeah, that actually happened. _To me_. Just relax, would you? Really."

"This may be premature," Andrey said, "but I suspect meeting you has ruined my entire life."

The progress back within that shadowy labyrinth went just as quickly, which was to say not quickly at all. The few militiamen left on the western side looked to their lieutenant colonel for orders and he waved them away with unseemly gestures and elaborate lies. Few of them seemed especially troubled by this, or by anything else.

Patience seemed the wisest course. Kosra had no authority over the guardsmen, but Brigadier Liana Razin had an important title, and people with important titles didn't stay still for long lest they appear as human beings and all their rightful rights turn to smoke.

With her gone the other guardsmen would have no reason to search the town. Honest words could finally pass, and all would end as originally envisioned. Perhaps having finally discovered who commanded the ceremonial guardsmen, and in the midst of a plot, would be enough to keep even Levin quiet.

But for having no reason to search this darkened town, the guardsmen certainly were spreading further than expected. Tourism seemed an unlikely answer. They were well-armed, worked in groups, and one soon approached . . . and passed by entirely. Never before had a surge of fear so quickly appeared and dissipated.

The answer, unfortunately, soon made itself apparent. As they reached the base of the stone clock tower, the one monument of note, another figure approached from the other end of the street. No guardsmen had made it this far, and he was neither armed nor wearing indigo.

Regina stopped in the middle of the road. The way this man stood, one hand in his jacket pocket, a slight slouch, and that distinctive red hair: the same sense of impersonal familiarity returned. The façade had to be maintained.

Andrey stepped forward for this exact purpose. "Come to share stories from the ward, have you?" he asked. "Shame I've never been in that fortress, not even once."

"Then get out of my way," Richard said. He came even closer, still completely alone, but there was an unpleasant air about him.

"Hey, I recognise you," Regina said, as if it had just dawned on her. "You were the guy from the state channel, right? I used to see you all the time on the news."

"I was the propagandist, not the newsreader," Richard said, entirely uninterested. "Writer, director, spokesman: they never did pay me enough. Advisor to General Hereson, former . . . well, we can't call him a ruler." He took another step, now within a metre, and another. "And you were the deserter Gail spent months trying to find."

It was over in four seconds. A quick step back, a dagger seized, and with almost inhuman speed Andrey had the stolen blade held to Richard's throat, and the man on his knees. Regina wasn't surprised. Months fighting for survival, if not years, and for what a stunning result.

"A Borginian officer on the team," Richard said, his voice strained, otherwise unconcerned. "You make friends easily. Does Kosra know? Of course he does."

"Shut your mouth and keep it shut," Andrey said, holding him exactly where he was. "No, I don't need to hear it. If you make this difficult we get hit by a few warships, so don't tell me cooperating is treason now. The brigadier can't know _yet._ Got it?"

"Liana already knows, so stop threatening me and—"

Something changed in Andrey's expression then; he turned the dagger back and smashed the end of it into Richard's ribs. Instinctual movements again, and to a less anticipated end. It was as if he'd hit a corpse, and he soon moved to repeat the blow.

Regina knew that look too well and seized his arm, holding it back with difficulty. "Keep it together before you do something we'll both regret. He didn't say _he _told her."

This wasn't feigned. It wasn't even exaggerated. Neither was his usual manner, but that burst of contempt was as real as it could ever be. Regina realised how tightly her hand had clenched around his upper arm, fingers digging deep into the muscle. They were both losing control, but Andrey gave way first, and without argument. Gave way, but didn't move back.

Why couldn't he see it? This situation was ideal, and only improving by the minute. Arriving on the same night to join the one man Regina had expected to find came both a high level officer from the only regiment that mattered and General Hereson's own propagandist, a man who'd evidently escaped an inescapable execution. Fortunately Richard didn't seem to mind being assaulted. He may even have enjoyed it, to look at him then, but that minor piece of fortune could shift in a second.

Perhaps it already had, for someone else had arrived. "And what's this?" The newcomer's voice was devoid of all emotion. Her gaze shifted from Richard, who offered a resigned smile, to Andrey, and the dagger, and finally Regina. Something changed as the scene pieced itself together and, though this woman's response was completely opaque, it didn't seem promising.

"Miranda, what are you doing here?" Andrey asked, genuinely surprised. "You should've stayed with—"

"Do you intend to kill him?" Miranda asked, as if it were a matter of no consequence at all. It felt anything but, and though Regina realised it first all she could do was watch Andrey obliviously stammer on.

"You can't be seen with us," he said, almost urgently, but he did have the sense to pull the dagger away. "Not by these people. I can explain this, just—"

"Step away from him," Miranda said softly, "or I'll call the guardsmen. You can explain it to them. Is that how this works?"

It certainly was. Now free, Richard pulled himself up, dusted off his now ruined suit, and spat out a mouthful of blood. "It's quite simple," he said. "Those guardsmen are looking for me, not you. I know who you are, I know what you're doing, and you're not leaving until I'm done with you. Find a place to hide, and do it quickly."


	37. Chapter 37

Thoughts reflected the material world, beliefs were shaped by it in turn, and actions intended to reshape that reality had a curious way of only reinforcing that which had already been set in motion. Identifying those conditions was always necessary. At least then you could tell yourself manipulation was a real possibility without too much shuddering.

Not that shuddering always warranted evasion. It seemed appropriate enough, for instance, when that manipulator came to find herself concealed in a clock tower with an erratic foreign officer, a former propagandist on the run, and an unsettling woman who said too little and knew too much. This situation, delightfully unique though it appeared, felt all too familiar. Regina did see the humour in her situation, or would've had it not been defined by a certain miserable contradiction.

It couldn't be done. What Richard Morrent surely expected and what Regina knew she needed and what Andrey was clearly going to demand could not exist in the same universe. Not under those conditions. The arrangements made had been adapted to the conditions at hand, and still stood firm in that respect. Only in that respect.

As for Miranda, whoever she was, she voiced no demands at all, and little else either. This was problematic, to say the least, as she was the only one present who saw no immediate need to hide herself from the retrieval teams in their lovely indigo. No doubt Andrey could restrain her, but whether he actually would remained doubtful. Skulking by the door, watching both the street and Regina, he waited to be told what he wanted to hear. Only what he wanted to hear.

Regina pretended not to notice. Even if the uncertainty here wasn't quite paralysing, which it wasn't, she still favoured letting someone else make the first misstep. This was an absolute mess, filled with contradictions, sure to be miserable for someone if not everyone, and any number of similarly gloomy predictions could and probably would be made. The difficulty here was hardly subtle.

Or so it appeared. A more or less functional militia, a battalion from what could justifiably be called the armed wing of the ruling party, and a warship waiting off the coast. It was as if it had all been swept off the table the moment the sun had set. Why had they opted for that absurd show around the fire, to avoid confrontation, with such direct instruments so close to hand? That was the first question here.

But there was no _they _in this scenario. The rest of them were as oblivious as the militiamen they'd arrived to escort. Secrecy was Kosra's concern, time was Liana's, but Regina needed neither. Behind that woman's forceful push lay a hand wrapped in chains. The implication here was obvious: follow the narrative, send Richard back, and that would be the end of it. Understand, comply, and receive the same in turn. There was the implicit message.

Perhaps it was the only way. If that officer had any intention of doing otherwise she'd have already done it—the recognition in her eyes had been obvious—and behind that was more unease. What would happen if they were delayed? Evidently nothing pleasant. But even if such circumstances could be contrived, it remained an enormously difficult prospect. Certainly one the guardsmen were unlikely to appreciate for much longer. For all its theatrical value, the clock tower was not the most imaginative hiding place.

And as if on cue the first actor made his move. "Fifteen minutes, no more," Andrey announced, pulling away from the door. "They'll search the streets first, then move to the houses." He looked at Richard, barely concealing a scowl. "Hiding_ her _is one thing. Hiding someone a whole battalion is looking for? Oh, but it'll be fine."

"It doesn't matter," Richard said, seemingly to the rear wall. "They won't come for us, not for a little while, and not if you're any good at your job, whatever that's supposed to be."

"Oh, it'll be _fine_,_"_ Andrey repeated, "and if we're all caught in the act and put up against a wall that'll be just lovely, for you people all seem to think you're invincible. And why not? You made it to twenty-five, so why not fifty?" Glancing up at the ceiling as if for moral support, he restrained himself and turned to Regina instead. "The things we endured from his kind . . . do as you like, but you're a fool if you believe a word of it."

"If hyperbole was a crime I'd be shot on the spot," Richard said, turning back with reluctance, "but I wouldn't be going alone. We could all march to the gallows hand in hand." He too looked at Regina, his speech taking on an uneasy blend of intuition and haziness. "And you? No, you must be with Anton now. Gail too? It must be, or if not. . . . But telling you they always were too close would _not _get me shot on the spot. Quite a risk for a man you must despise, yet here you are. Devoted to the cause, are we?"

Regina remained where she was, glancing between them both. "Drop the condescension," she said, turning to Richard and his wall without much enthusiasm. "You say you knew Gail, so you just _know_ he wouldn't have bothered with this friendly chat. There's devotion, and you still make it sound like he turned on you."

"But of course he did," Richard said. "And you? We're not so distant. Do you know, I was the one who falsified those crimes against you? I made you a murderer, but at least you had no choice in the matter. Gail snuck off through a backdoor when nobody was looking. I suppose I should apologise. When the new management arrived I thought you might be there. You really weren't one of them."

For a moment he was left to wallow in silence. "I take it back," Regina said mildly. "That resentment's personal, isn't it? I'm starting to feel it myself." Now it was his turn for stubborn silence. "Alright, I'll play along. Sure, I wasn't one of them, but tell me you weren't. They killed off everyone who _knew_, right? But the propagandist? Why keep him alive?" Richard didn't seem inclined to answer; Regina had endured more than enough of that. "There's always a price with these people. Something you did, or they did to you. It made you see it their way."

To his credit Richard didn't look away. "There are at least four stories that come to mind," he said, "and one of them is true. Here's the first. I was chosen well in advance and given instructions. If the day came, all I had to do was murder James Hereson, my good friend and mentor, while they watched on that rooftop. If it didn't, I'd never see that deranged woman again. That's the first of four, now let's—"

"Don't bother," Regina said. "That's the real one."

Richard actually looked wounded at the presumption that he'd make it so easy. Regina didn't even look at him. The silent woman by the far wall, nothing but ennui: the slightest clench in her jaw, the way one pale hand twitched at her side. There was the proof. The trouble with impassive people is how obvious it is when they finally do feel something.

"Not my hands, not my choice," Richard said, all energy inexplicably fading. "That's how it felt. It seemed inevitable." This time he glanced at Miranda, who looked as undisturbed as ever. "I was so sure . . . and I thought if I did she'd forget me, let us both go. I was right, wasn't I?" He gestured around the room, but didn't quite seem to know who he was asking.

"Was it only for Hereson?" Regina asked, as if it were of no significance. It felt anything but, and she too spoke too hastily. "It couldn't have been. Not when . . . look, everything that woman says is poison. There's a good chance I can prove it. Be blunt. What did they really want?"

No answer came at first. Richard seemed to lose focus, again staring at the far wall, but finally he looked to restrain his self-loathing, staring at her curiously. "I had wondered why you were here. You're not much of a liar, are you? But how about this: get us out of here and I might show you. One corpse to another." He couldn't even look at her then, spat to one side, and retreated to a corner. "Go on. Try and beat it out of me. I might just enjoy that."

This man was utterly broken. Pity overcame anger and the urge to follow, to insist, soon faded. It would be futile, and they were running out of time. A door slammed open down a nearby street, and Andrey was growing less compliant by the minute. "Where are we supposed to go?" he whispered.

Regina had no answer. Did Richard know what Kosra did? It was doubtful. Could they even reach the outskirts again with the streets so heavily watched? It was impossible. If they did, would Kosra and his men pay for their transgressions? It seemed certain. Did that matter? Every choice was wrong, and every choice was right, and she hated that too, and she especially hated that her mind had been made up for the last twenty minutes. Where was the room for agency here? Yet for someone so desperate Richard hadn't once said his intent was to flee.

"You know what we have to do, don't you?" Regina murmured, and a slow nod confirmed it. Unlikely allies indeed.

Andrey handed her back the dagger and went immediately to Miranda, who had passively watched with the sort of expression that might have said she'd rather be elsewhere, at least if it had been on anyone else. "We're going to be found if we stay here," he said quietly. "If they see you with him, with _her_, and if they assume . . . I can't protect you from these people. Not here, and not now."

Miranda held up one hand and he fell silent. There was an unsettling look about her then, as if it had all long since been understood, but she offered not even verbal resistance. All indignation had withdrawn the moment the blade left Richard's throat.

Regina found herself overcome with reluctance. Instead she turned back to Richard. "What you just so very subtly hinted: it can happen if we go now," she said. He already knew, and nodded slightly in response. The first outside was the lieutenant colonel, seemingly eager to leave. Only the steady movement of the clock above, its hands and gears, broke through the heavy silence.

"Should I wait?" Miranda suddenly asked, startling them both. "I can tell them anything. It'd buy you at least an hour." A moment of hesitation, almost unfitting, soon passed. "Even her, if she takes you too. I don't mind."

Richard remained still, unnaturally so. "Don't wait for anyone, least of all me. Take my advice. Use these people. Get to Borginia, and far away from this shithole of a place." He reached up tentatively, put a hand on her shoulder. "I know what you'll say. It might mean nothing to you, but I need to believe it. It can't all have been wasted effort."

The look Miranda gave him then was strange, almost insistent. "Why do you think I followed you? Any lie, any story, to anyone. You go to Borginia. I can go with you, if you like—just tell me to do it."

"I appreciate it more than I can say," Richard said, though he still couldn't quite look at her, "but you can't believe they'd actually let me someone like me roam around free. Not here, and not there. This is how it has to be."

Indignation had never been conveyed so lightly. "Then following you here was wasted effort," Miranda said, almost in a whisper. "You'll let them murder you to justify who even knows what, but I can stop them and you tell me to sit back and watch." Quieter with each second, she closed what little distance remained. "There are easier ways to die, if that's still what you want."

"And I don't expect you'll want to hear this, but I am sorry," Richard said. He looked to Regina at the door, who felt as if she perhaps ought to be outside. "You can tell them, tell them everything . . . it is time, isn't it?" She gave a slow nod in response. He barely noticed. "You see? It's not a choice; it couldn't be any other way. You'll be better off for it, I'm sure of that."

Turning to leave, as if ashamed again, this time he was held back by the arm. "Just say it. It won't hurt, not the way you think it will." He offered no resistance. Neither did he answer, eyes fixed on the door, and looked to have barely heard. Something colder came over her then. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

There was something different about this hesitance. "Maybe you are right," Richard murmured. "It's absurd, I know. I feel sick just at the thought of it, but I can't seem to stop. Do I deserve this, do you think? I'd rather not know." He was entirely motionless, as if afraid she would release him at the slightest gesture. "And you? They let you go, they let you come here, and with _him_, but there must've been a reason. Don't lie to me now."

"There are no reasons," Miranda said, as if only to herself. She still hadn't released his arm. "I suppose it doesn't matter, not really, and I never asked . . . but Dmitri did tell me something, something you never would've. And _she _was there too, whispering into the Borginian's ear. Now we're here, and I know what they want, and I know why you lied." Suddenly Richard looked rather sallow, completely motionless, and finally she released him. "It's alright. I'm glad you didn't tell me."

Richard's calm air of resignation had turned to a sort of stiffness, the night air felt icier by the minute, mild winter or not, and Miranda left without even a glance back—it was as if Regina didn't exist at all to her—but she soon had reason to slow again. It was the lieutenant colonel, against all expectation, who barred her way. He glanced to Regina at the tower's entrance. A slight nod, barely noticeable, and he stood aside again as that listless figure swept into the distance and vanished from sight.

II

In the space of an hour the entire town had been seized and segmented by the ruthlessly efficient guardsmen. Avoiding these patrols was near impossible. They did not act as regular soldiers did, did not think like infantrymen, and though information was beyond scarce Regina knew the truth. The exits had been sealed, and would remain so until their prize was returned.

The illusion of control was a comforting one. What was desirable, and what was possible? One sensation was pleasant, another unpleasant, desires followed along those lines with the greatest consistency, rarely noticed at all unless they proved defective. The latter question left considerably more room for debate. Many a difficult night could be endured through the hope that there was some reliable order to the world, something that would readily hear and sympathise with personal pleas if only the individual will were inspiring enough. Few indulged in those expectations on that night.

But the temptation to react against one flawed position by assuming the exact opposite shared a curiously similar source. Once the ugliness of the idea was put aside, the same core remained. It was comfortable. Absolute futility appealed to the despairing much as an ordered and malleable world did to the hopeful, and that was all that was asked of either conception.

Regina had wavered between these for a lifetime. Futility wouldn't be so easily discarded, but neither could it be readily accepted that there was no room for movement, that each act was forced entirely by circumstance, and that the participants were closer to spectators than performers. Even so, if it wasn't hesitance it was uncertainty. Something decisive, some sort of committed movement: that was what was needed. Clarity would follow, never precede.

As the three of them waited in an alley, the air thick with smoke, that was clearer than ever. There would be no escape, however much they wanted it, whatever they did. Not for all of them. Richard was barely lucid, though he concealed even that, but the others were different. Both Kosra and the unsettling officer in her vibrant uniform. Even around the fire it was as if they had all felt it, all understood, and all played their parts accordingly. Perhaps it really was preordained.

Unfortunately there were more pressing concerns. Even if a second meeting was assured, and Regina intended to manufacture one, a cheerful ending to that meeting certainly was not. Fortunately even the very worst outcomes could still be averted. What had Miranda meant, and where would she go now? She was the key, the inadvertent messenger, but Regina didn't mind. Kosra or Liana, either would suffice. Either would be ideal.

Not that either of her companions knew it. Resentment would be easily justified. If not for Richard she was sure Kosra would have revealed it all by then, though what exactly _it_ was remained elusive as ever, and even the identity of this peculiar friend of his. It wasn't Dmitri Mirzin: that was obvious. For a slight moment Regina had hoped otherwise. No, in truth the man was utterly vile, the sort of leech who had been gifted with innumerable talents and saw fit only to put them to work for the very worst purposes. He was all the more disgusting_ for_ his capacity for empathy, for his lack of innate callousness. For being recognisably human.

This particular ugliness bore all the markings of Mirzin's work. It was a subtle sort of corrosion, one he employed but certainly didn't control. Masking every moment, clouding every word and act: hardly there at all, if not for the growing awareness of its victims. Richard had been entirely right. Refuge in Borginia was the best hope for Miranda, not a warzone, and certainly not Dmitri Mirzin's whispers. But Regina had said nothing. Hadn't supported him. The entire time a sickly feeling had twisted through her gut, one paralysingly similar to recognition. That line of thought was not followed for long. They fled without direction, but with considerable success. Regina intended to delay matters as long as she could, and Richard hardly seemed to care where they went, escape or not. His muted request for a private audience, at least, if that was what it really was, could yet be arranged. It was better to do so quickly.

And the task at hand was a familiar one. "Straight across," Regina ordered, ushering them all across the street. Too familiar. Mistakes were being made, thought replacing understanding, the present moment slipping away. It never ended. "Hold it," she soon called, seizing Andrey by the shoulder. He was in the lead, had seen it too, and this time they retreated into a burnt out store.

The patrols started on the other side first, unburnt and unlooted. Fortunately their numbers were quite small, or so it seemed. That was small consolation. The sirens, the unrest, the shooting: all had ceased. How had they seized an entire town in thirty minutes? Fear began to creep in, soon becoming palpable. Were they searching in earnest, or only pretending?

"Where are we even going?" Andrey whispered in her ear. "You know as well—"

"Just do it," Richard called from the wall he'd slumped down against. "Delaying's not going to help either of us now." He beckoned her over, that feverish look returning. "I didn't ever imagine Miranda would follow me. Didn't want to say it in front of her. All those ugly details, and with you? No, I couldn't say it."

"Who is she?" Regina asked. "If you expect us to go back—"

Richard pointed at Andrey. "He will. _You _have an obligation to get her out of here. Promise me that or I will have them put you up against a wall. Don't think they wouldn't." And then back to Regina. "You stay away from her. What a mess. The world's fucked, do you know that? Absolutely fucked."

Regina glanced at Andrey, who did seem inclined to make that promise, and received a faint nod in response. The pretence had to be shattered. "Go and find Kosra," she said. "Tell him to clear that plaza. You have to get him to send the rest of the militia away, and the guardsmen too. Get them moving back north, anywhere but here."

Andrey's look of astonishment was worth everything. It was as if he'd just been asked to cut off one of his own fingers. "That's the most outrageous request I've ever heard," he said, "Even if he agreed, you actually think that dead-eyed woman would ever—"

"Not only that," Regina interrupted, "but she'll agree to it without a second of argument. If I'm wrong you can assume I'm wrong about everything else and do as you like."

"She's right," Richard added from his wall. "I sat next to Liana for sixteen hours on the way here. She likes to hear herself speak and she's very particular about her audience. Nervous, too. She's scared of something, and who could blame her? Either way, that's never promising. Once I go back, and only then, you can bet everything you've got on that assessment."

Andrey still hesitated, as if expecting a trap, and Regina seized him by the shoulder. "If we don't do this, and do it soon, they _will _get violent. You've trusted me this far, so believe me now. Go."

He did. Not a minute passed and the patrol knew, giving immediate chase. That, at least, was as expected. Regina knelt down next to Richard, looked through the energy and the contempt and the anger. "You didn't ever think I'd help you escape, did you?"

Richard just laughed. "Oh, I admit I did. And I didn't." He looked at her arm. "When you've seen the spite in these people . . . but you already have. They're not even sane, are they? But the others are in this for the usual reasons. They flutter about as if they chose this, and they'll die thinking they chose that too. Liana can be the first." He gave a weak smile. "Well, not quite the first."

"Is that why she's taking you south now? It's not much of a plan from where I'm standing."

"Who ever said anything about a plan?" Richard asked, his smile turning to a sort of bitter grin. "Do you know, this obsession with plans and visions and lofty goals is just awful. No, nobody planned this, we all just sort of landed here, and nobody planned what comes next either. It just _happened, _and it just happens that the slightest spark will have this miserable place burning for years."

"You're not as confused as you pretend you are, so don't avoid the question. Your new friends? It's not like they hide it. Struggle and misery and almost certain death for nothing. That's a proposal, and it's a plan too."

"Your problem is that you still think people don't like struggle and misery and almost certain death," Richard said. "But you already know that. You know all of it. Why ask me? You just don't want to believe, that's why."

"Neither do they," Regina slowly said, looking down at him. "They're lying to you, or to themselves."

"Both, no doubt, it has to be both," Richard said, still glancing to each side. "We all do it, especially me, and to tell the truth I've forgotten it all. Polostin will burn whether they like it or not. Buy yourself a few more weeks, if that's your only concern." He gestured at the dagger. Regina didn't move, and had no intention of doing so. He knew it, and slowly exhaled. "You don't smoke, do you? I suppose not. What a night."

"You don't make any sense," Regina said. "The way you talk you'll be dead within the month no matter what I do. Even if I could help you escape—"

Richard laughed then, but it was hollow. "Let's try Borginia," he said, leaning his head back against the wall. "Political asylum for the man who helped paint them as the instigators of that vile war, I can see that." He held up one finger. "How about the northern wastes? Do you have any idea what they would do to the creature who devoted his life to covering up that sordid massacre?" He refused to even allow an attempt at a reply, holding up another finger. "Polostin? And when Gail finds out what I did, and you can be sure _they _would tell him, much like they told Miranda—"

He was cut short. They heard the patrol's return, and there was little time left. "You've made a lot of enemies, haven't you?" Regina asked quietly. "It doesn't mean you deserve to die for it. If that wasn't true half the people I know, and I'd be one of them . . ."

But Richard finally gave her with his full attention, as if trying to understand something. "I think I only just realised," he said softly. "You never saw, you didn't recall . . . I suppose in your line of work murder must be mundane."

That same icy feeling returned, akin to a dagger in the stomach. "Do you think you're being subtle?" Regina asked. "My entire life I've been told not to ask for the answers. Why shouldn't I? That's the question you can never ask until the moment's passed."

"The moment has passed," Richard said. "Yours and mine. I pictured the last day, you know. Royce, Gail, the way they'd look at me, and finally I'd look back and not say a word. Inevitable or not, this time she'd be safe in sunny Borginia; I'd be telling myself I at least did something right before the bullet hit. It would complicate things . . . Vorman didn't see it coming, and I suppose I won't either." He hesitated then, and seemed to concede something. "Would you . . . would you not tell them? That I killed James, I mean. I don't think I can stand the thought of it."

"You say you know when you'll die down to the time and place. How can you tolerate that but not a moment of blunt honesty?"

"That's an absurd question," Richard said. "Honesty is its own form of suicide, don't you think? You'll make sure it's not done for nothing. They'll be prepared. Every kind of proof, every measure taken. They'll pin the assassination on Royce personally to justify an invasion, it _is _the sort of thing he'd do, and if you prevent it they'll just find another way. Do it yourself, and do it quietly, and it _will_ work. This is what I do, you understand? I manufacture consent, and I manufacture dissent. Take Liana in, deal with Kosra now, and Liebert by proxy. Force the rest of them to stop hiding."

"And if the assassination does fail? Tell me who else was on that rooftop. One secret for another."

Richard laughed again, with even less feeling. "I heard the rumours, and so did you. Now you want proof. A nice little story to validate the effort." He reached out for a hand up and received it. "The truth is, you never needed me. The man is a titan, no doubt, both in stature and presence, and standing at her side . . . such a delicate figure, small and slender, and how they ruined us. He'll tell you everything, don't doubt it for a second."

"Not without reason. You have reason. I'll give you all the reason you need."

"And he needs _none._ He doesn't care, Eliza herself wouldn't care . . . Liana and Dmitri would, and he'll tell you just to spite them. He and Liebert loathe those two, always scheming, always lying. Well, they are foreign, I suppose. Eliza thinks it's quite funny, you know—she told me so in the hospital. That woman takes nihilism to an immeasurable extreme. No, you knew he'd tell you then, and you know I won't now. Consider this incentive to go back."

By then he was looking through her entirely, back at the charred walls. Regina saw the truth of it. He would say no more, not to her or anyone. He felt an inexplicable pull to see this finished, drew more satisfaction from that than anywhere else, felt it as deserved and proper, and could not be dissuaded. Not by her, not here, and certainly not now. Another door soon broke free of its hinges, and he approached theirs. "You're sure? If you go through that door now you'll never get another chance."

"It was never my chance to take," Richard said, "but don't mistake me. Miranda saw right through me. This is as selfish as it gets, and it always will be. I'll see you in Polostin, I have no doubt." He offered her that same forced smile, pulled the door open, and slammed it shut behind him. It was hard to tell exactly what happened next. A moment more, the sound of boots of concrete the only indicator left, and they were gone.

The crucial moment came and the reasons faded ever further into the distance. Was it fear of vulnerability, or fear of indifference? That the moment any task was complete, any objective realised, the desired outcome would be exposed as a shadow scarcely worth the effort? But realisation remained exactly that without expression. A pale shadow, hardly worth the thought wasted in its forming.

So it was then. Soon enough the road was clear once more. The sense of looming pressure, of dread, only seemed to grow. Evidently this elite force had chased two men from the same street and not seen the need to check for more. A mistake? Not likely.

At one end, leading back to the clock tower, the road was deserted. At the other a single figure stood alone and with her back turned, much like a shadow herself. Regina knew she could take the empty road freely. Nothing would have been easier.

III

Perhaps there always was a right time, and a right place. Seize them both and glimpse another world hidden just beyond the horizon, or return with empty hands. It felt as if this was the only path that could have been taken. That, at least, likely held true for them all. The deception had stretched well beyond that, and to something only a few could see, all of whom shared some quality even from afar.

To what end? Little wonder the time and place seemed to forever stretch into the distant future. Comfort provided by feigned indifference was entirely illusory. By the time the lesson was learned both slipped away again, and without validation the lesson itself soon followed. There was time still to right that particular wrong. What had her aim been in coming here? It began to feel closer to a trial than an assignment.

The streets were completely silent, and the fires had been extinguished. Where were the people? It didn't matter. Only one needed to appear, and only one had.

"Our friends in purple won't be gone for long," Regina said, slowing to an inadvertent halt. "You can blame me, if you like. Maybe I could've done something . . . but I won't lie to you. Even if he'd asked, how many would've died for it? It's not my call to make. Not anyone's, really."

Miranda barely seemed to hear. "I stopped him once," she said. "He had the pistol in his mouth. It wasn't even loaded. After that he asked me: do we choose these things, or are they forced on us? He said he had to know, that it was the only way . . . but he'll never know. He never wanted to know. The way people stare, the way they speak. I know I'm not quite what I should be. He asked me because he knew what I'd say. And now I'll ask you, because I don't know what you'll say."

Regina's maimed hand curled at her side. "I won't lie, sometimes I start to believe it myself," she said. "No matter how much effort we put in it it's like hurling it into the void. What could I have done instead? I ask myself that every day, like there's ever an answer, but here I am. Maybe I don't believe it."

"Would you do any of it differently? If you could go back, I mean."

"That's a question without an answer. And who's asking?"

"Nobody at all," Miranda said. "Would you let me hold that dagger?"

Her voice was barely a whisper, but Regina didn't hesitate, reaching down and offered the dagger freely. Her cooperation had to be assured, however unsettling this was quickly becoming. If there were alternatives, they were quickly dismissed. This was the path, the risk was illusory, the reason tangible, and it was received without word or gesture.

Miranda held it up in what little light there was. "Who did you expect you'd have to kill?"

"Nobody. I've never used it. I don't expect I ever will."

"Then why keep it with you?"

"I don't know. A reminder, I suppose." Something behind those words urged caution. "Just by coming here I called off an artillery strike that would've levelled this place. I thought I was being merciful, but when I saw these people again, when I realised how easy it would be, it just didn't seem to matter. I couldn't have done it. Not this time. What's so laudable about that?" The distance was closed again. "You're right, you know. It does get easier. One after another until you can't recall . . . but then I look down and remember who gave that to me. It's ridiculous, but where did it ever get him?"

"To the top of the fortress in Merestan," Miranda said softly. "It's sad. We're here because we don't know where else to go. I can see it in your eyes. He looks that way too. Maybe he'll throw himself off the citadel. Maybe someone will have to throw him off."

"How do you know that?" Regina asked quietly, not moving a muscle.

"Maybe I don't," Miranda said. "You wanted to believe it, so you did. I wonder why."

"And I wonder why you're here," Regina said, eyes fixed only on the dagger. "I feel like I should recognise you. Were you sent here to spy on them? You remind me of—"

"I'm with no-one," Miranda said, "and no-one's with me. Nobody sent me here, and nobody will care where I go now."

"That's just as sad as whatever you think you can see in me. But Richard was right, wasn't he? You don't care. I've seen it before and I can see it now. So why come here?"

"I came here to find something. That's all."

One truth made itself known: pressing her any further would be a grave error. "And I hope you find it," Regina said. "For what it's worth, if there's anything I can do for you, name it. I mean that. Anything at all, no questions asked. Whether we wanted this or not . . . we're all searching for something. Let's agree on that, if nothing else."

"We're all searching," Miranda said, "but there's nothing to find. I'd like you to see it. Could you turn around and walk away now, even if you wanted to? We're being pulled back together by _something_, all of us, and none of us can leave until _it _lets us. It never will. Over and over, every day the same. If we could just admit it . . . this is what we wanted, isn't it? That's why it won't end."

"What if there's a way around it?" Regina asked, entirely motionless. Gleaming in the dark was the steel dagger. "I won't pretend to have the answers you're looking for, but I don't need them. This should never have happened. None of us should ever be put in this situation again. Whatever pushed us to be here . . . I want it gone. Finished. Tell me that's just as worthless as whatever the rest of them expected to find here. Show me."

"If it is, you'll see it for yourself," Miranda said, quieter than ever. "Apathy. You don't just go off and shoot yourself. You learn to enjoy it. Dmitri told me that's what I'd find here, that I would finally _want_ . . . but did he actually believe that? I won't indulge him for the sake of a dream." Another moment passed, even longer, and the dagger was lowered again. "The Borginian is waiting for you. Would you follow me? I'd like to take you to him."

For as soft as this woman's voice was, it was as if she wasn't there at all and it was only the sound of the breeze rustling through the trees in that empty street. Each movement, each sound, was suddenly excruciating. Her offer was accepted without either.


	38. Chapter 38

The air had quickly turned cold, and it seemed each source of light had been systematically hunted down and put out. Though it had been lowered the blade sat loosely at Miranda's side. There was something disturbing behind that woman's eyes, beyond the indifference, beyond the cold exterior, and Regina began to think she knew all too well what it meant.

At first it was hard to see at all, with only fragments of moonlight left to light their path back to the plaza. The enormous fires had been extinguished; when they arrived only the burnt pile of refuse remained to greet them. That in itself seemed entirely appropriate. Regina stepped to one side, waited for the slightest sign of movement. A light sweat coated her brow despite the night air; an inadvertent stiffness shadowed every movement. One advantage presented itself. Here there was a clear view of the western hills.

There was a sense of dread here, but it wasn't so familiar. Which of the two would it be? The dread stemmed from the final possibility, that all of this was for nothing, that they had all vanished much as they'd appeared. Miranda seemed perfectly content to remain silent, staring at the wisps of smoke still emanating from the remains of the fire, entirely at ease. This was calculation, not coincidence, and there was the solution. It was only when Regina knelt down and fired a red flare into the western sky that the farce was ended. A minute later, perhaps more, a window far on the eastern row of houses shattered with neither warning nor reason. Miranda hardly seemed to notice, or perhaps she saw no reason to respond. One hand was soon extended; in it was the dagger. Received much as it had been given, its return provided little relief.

Though it came as fortuitous timing. A figure had finally approached, only then distinguishable through the gloom, and Regina knew her last companion had vanished. Only the faint light shining off the indigo cloth served as proof, but that proof was hardly needed. The messenger had done as expected, and this silhouette was decidedly not seven foot tall.

"Three hundred men to a battalion," Regina said, one hand wrapped around the flare gun. "Why am I not surprised you lost the escort?"

"Why hesitate?" Liana Razin said, pointing with one gloved hand at both the dagger and the flare gun. "Could I speculate? There are about a hundred and eighty Borginians enjoying a midnight drive with those three hundred men. Should I fail to return . . . but a brigade of human refuse is a fair trade for a brigadier, it seems to me."

"Every one of you asks the same sick questions. Just forget it. I'm not going to indulge you, so let's try again. How did you recognise me?"

"I _was_ an officer in the guard," Liana said. "No, I heard rumours about you. From my new friends. Some of them were your friends, I think, but they don't like to speak of that, at least to me."

"Funny how that works," Regina said, "They take your help, your men, your authority, and leave you to pick up the pieces. Same story, different face."

Liana took a step closer, one hand in her coat pocket. "I know that," she said simply. "And I know I can't touch you here. You could still make an attempt, if you like. Who'd suffer for it? Foreigners? Their lives are worthless."

"So is yours. At least now I can point you out in a crowd, Brigadier."

Liana seemed more amused than surprised. "And you expect you'll have to do just that." She gestured at the surroundings, desolate though they were. "We've both stumbled to the edge of an abyss, haven't we? We're both being used." The hand in her coat pocket suddenly withdrew, clasping nothing more than a thin envelope. "Dmitri gave me this before I left. I might find someone down here, he said, and it might just be you, and here you are. He said it over lunch, like it was nothing." The envelope was extended. "I don't like that. Not in the slightest."

Just as it had earlier, the medals and rank faded away and revealed a human being underneath. Regina didn't believe it this time either, taking the envelope without comment. It was a small collection of documents. The entire profile and history of a particular agent, right down to a birth certificate and recent photograph. Regina made no comment at first, wasting as much time as she could, and terribly exasperating the officer in process.

"The only copy, you know," Liana pointed out, quite literally with one gloved hand. "Outside of that file and the assorted memories of a select few, you're not just dead: you never existed at all. Erased from every record. How does it feel?"

Rather underwhelming, in truth. Could a flimsy stack of papers ever contain the sum total of a life's experiences? It did in the eyes of the state, a state which had grown ever stronger in the wake of the uprising, one likely to continue on that path for the foreseeable future, decay or not. Generous gesture or poison? Both, no doubt. It was always both.

The envelope and its contents parted into halves, and then again, with a rather satisfying tear. "Thanks for the gesture," Regina said, throwing the remnants aside. "Now I can go back to Merestan without being shot at the gates. Tell me why I should."

"They didn't bother to say. Dmitri calls it a personal idiosyncrasy, but I can't quite believe it. So much of his time is spent on these . . . oddities. It really does disgust me. I'm a senior officer, not his courier."

Another envelope, much smaller and a light blue, was held out. This one was pocketed without comment. An engine in the distance could be heard, if faintly. The envelope could wait; questioning could wait. It was the experienced officer who found this truly intolerable. Just what had she done? The possibility that Kosra, Andrey, and Richard had each been shot in a gutter somewhere was becoming hard to put out of mind.

"I never could tolerate being used," Liana said quietly. "I murdered Vorman and it worked perfectly, didn't it? Paved the way for the coup, gave Liebert an excuse to come south . . . now I wish I'd shot him instead." Now she was murmuring to herself, but just as much for Regina's benefit. "It's not that it _can't _work, only . . . perhaps they don't want it to work."

The sound of that same engine, barely spluttering along, put uncertainty and suspicion off to one side. They both watched in silent bemusement. The Alvernian military used trucks as troop carriers by default, but the truck that arrived then would have been a better fit for a farmers' market than a military depot. Arriving not from the east, where Gail would surely approach, nor the north, where the guardsmen had left, it came directly from the western hillside road.

Slowing his makeshift transport to a stop with considerable difficulty, the driver leapt out in the most absurdly energetic fashion. "I can't tell you how relieved I am," Andrey called out, cheerful as he'd ever been. "Now what's all this about? Perfect setting for some of my nightmares, that's all I'm saying."

At first the only response was muted silence. Any capacity for surprise had been sucked out at some point earlier in the night. Regina gave him the briefest nod, heard the other door slowly close, and knew he'd done everything she'd asked. Small consolation was better than none.

It was Liana who approached first, smiling with thinly disguised malice. "We had to evacuate," she said lightly. "Would you believe this? One of my officers and half a company were found dead in this very town. Shot and stuffed away in a backstreet. Well, I could tolerate subterfuge, and I could tolerate treason, but _both_ on the same night? The questions that raises—"

"I've been wondering about that myself," a second man said. "Misled or suicidal, what do you think? Not one word and they pulled out the rifles."

"Did they really?" Liana asked, now almost cheerful. "Could you prove that?"

"You know what really got me?" Kosra asked, emerging from the truck's shadow. "Fifty guardsmen here, shooting at two hundred of us, two days before the commanding officer herself arrives in person for this joke of a rescue. I have to tell you, I haven't slept in days for the remorse."

Andrey had already strategically withdrawn, still watching Regina. But she barely noticed; was fascinated by the mockery in the older man's words, the way he effortlessly cut through every diversion. One hand was held tightly to his side, the material shining faintly in the faint light. That he could speak without a hint of pain seemed remarkable.

Liana noticed it too, all of it. "You'll have to do better than conjecture. You came down here to make an alliance, didn't you? Liebert is a traitor. You are a traitor." Her tone shifted in an instant. "It's not too late. Turn him over. Give me the lieutenant general, and this goes away." And she turned aside, pointing at Regina. "And tell me why anyone would care if I shot her in the head right here."

"Shoot us both, if you like," Kosra said. "Then you can go up to that fortress and tell Eliza I fell off a bridge. She might believe you, what do you think?" He seemed on the verge of laughter, holding up one hand to ward off protest. "No need to say it. Mirzin's your best buddy. He's got your back. He'll cover you. Sure he will."

"To the firing squad either way, it seems to me," Liana said, in an instant nothing but cold contempt. "Am I the only one who actually _wants _to find a way out of this intolerable conflict? After tonight they will be waiting, I'm sure of it."

"Then forget about it," Regina exclaimed, looking between them both. "Mirzin's just using you; you don't have to die for him." That actually broke through the contemptuous façade, if only for a brief second. "You think I'm lying? You actually think what he told you has even the slightest resemblance to what he's really thinking? It's pathetic. He doesn't care, so why should you?"

There were moments when the conditions behind any decision were so evenly balanced as to make that decision seem almost unrestricted by externalities. So it was then. It was then that Regina realised Miranda had never quite left, but waited on the far edge, watching with an almost fervent expression, closer by the minute.

"I need you to come with me," Liana said softly, turning back to Kosra. "We'll be returning to Merestan. Your men will be fine. So will you. We will agree to a story that benefits us both, and my only condition is that you tell me everything. Every detail, every little lie. Give me Liebert." Not quite the only condition. "And you'll say no more to her. Not another word."

Compliance came naturally to some. This could all have ended so cleanly, they all saw it, and Kosra made a great show of visibly thinking it over. When he glanced over at Regina she realised the reality of that in an instant, had seen this all before: there was no hint of contemplation in those taciturn eyes at all, nor indecision. "I hate to say it, but I'm just not convinced," Kosra said, mild as he'd ever been. The amiable mask was slipping away by the second. "Go on. Ask again, and ask nicely. Beg for it, if you like, because here's what I see. The plan's changed, and you're too stupid to see it. You think we're conspiring? Then prove it. If you push this and you're wrong this nobody's going to defend you. Nobody's going to care. And you want this to _end? _Oh, but you misunderstand. This is exactly what you signed on for—aren't you satisfied?" He was barely a step away from her then, shirt soaked from an opened wound. "You need me more than I'll ever need you, so give me a _reason_ to comply. And don't even think of taking _that_ road; if a single one of my men dies for you, I'll break your spine myself. You know I could get away with it."

"Little wonder you and Jean can't stomach the thought of a unified nation," Liana replied, laudably not intimidated in the slightest. She didn't even take a step back, as all instinct surely would've advised. "Not your land, not your people, not your culture. Isn't that true?" She had to look up just to meet his eyes. "You think you're safe. You think you can do as you like because that vain self-destructive nihilist will protect you, delighting as she does in every moment of decay and misery. I'll tell you now: the time for that is _finished_. History won't stand still for one narcissist, and not five of them either." Spinning back, she looked at Regina as if for assistance, composure beginning to slip. "And after that you still have the nerve to look at _me_ with contempt?"

There was something increasingly unpleasant about the air itself, as if the world around them was being swallowed by this interminable dusk. "Who said anything about contempt?" Regina asked, maintaining the reserve they'd both abandoned. "I'm not fond of either of you, to tell the truth, but at least he doesn't hide it. Explain this. If the two of you really are so opposed— what exactly are you doing here?" Her gaze was fixed on Kosra, this looming figure in the shadows behind, amusement and contempt both. "Here's some advice, Brigadier. Take their orders if you like, or drop the smug self-satisfaction and admit you're being used. If you can't do that, you'd better get used to it."

"She doesn't need to get used to it," Kosra said, amusement giving way to something uglier. "This is what she wanted. Faceless filth hiding behind the bars on their uniforms: we butchered more of her kind than I can count only to let their replacements through the gate the next day. Go on. Deny it. Make another threat. I'm beyond caring. The good work's never done, and I haven't had my fill yet."

"There would be something practical about it," Liana said softly. She looked only at Regina then, almost as if to understand something. "No, I suppose not. To abandon all our work to the whims of these beasts would be unconscionable. Better to purge the rot from within, and who else would do it? But you are right. We do make excuses for the things we want, and I never was like the rest of them. Not quite. I never could tolerate being used."

"There's always a reason," Miranda said, appearing at Kosra's side, her head barely touching his shoulder, "and it's always your reason. You have to believe it, don't you?" And when that peculiar woman turned to the east, they each followed the finger she pointed at the distant sky. "What do you think their reason is?"

Much as before, the sky had been lit up bright red. But this flare had been fired from far away, surely from the eastern outskirts. It was Andrey who approached again. Something had changed in his stance, now guarded and uncertain, gaze moving from Miranda to Kosra as if he'd never laid eyes on either before. "I had the eastern patrol use her method," he murmured into the older man's ear, or as close to it as he could get. "There's no doubt about it, not this time. Make a decision, and make it now."

"No need," Liana said, more amused than concerned. "I've indulged you for long enough."

II

It began to feel remarkably like a grotesque imitation of the first meeting around the fire. Inverted, darkened, and without the same facades but not with truth. A single shot was fired into the sky above, none of them even flinched, and Liana holstered her pistol again. The very same car approached, gleaming in the dark, and the same four figures emerged. There was an edge under that woman's manner now, something harsh and unrestrained.

Richard was unceremoniously thrown down between them by the three officers. All three seemed uncomfortable, to say the least, and carried rifles. Nerves and doubt: a poor combination. Kosra scowled at the sight, and seemed to think the same. Again Regina looked at him, trying to see what couldn't be said, and again he gestured slightly back to the west.

Something vile was happening, something they all felt incapable of knowing or seeing, but it was there nonetheless. Their lives were secured. The hundred and eighty Borginians on the road were hostage, but it was as Liana had said. Why should that matter? The three rifles glittered in the dark, the dagger on Regina's belt ever heavier, and they were finally out of excuses. The artillery threat shielded her against violence, the looming promise of retribution from Merestan did the same for Kosra, and what an array of tortures had been revealed that night which existed entirely outside that realm.

"You need to leave now," Regina said. A hundred and eighty in her hands, perhaps, and did it matter? The answers refused to come, but she acted as if they had. "When that detachment arrives you know what they'll do. Take it from someone who's been there: it's over, Brigadier. You delivered the message, you've done your job. Go home."

"That's the best suggestion I've heard all day," Liana said cheerfully, turning to the man on the floor. "I have some wonderful news, Richard. We're not going to Polostin. You don't have to meet with Anton now. Aren't you happy?"

Instead of relief it was horror that appeared in that ruined man's expression. "You can't just turn back now," Richard said, his voice hoarse. "What sort of nonsense is this? After all this work, to throw it away . . . and for what?"

"Are you lying to me, Richard?" Liana asked. "You told this woman what we were supposed to do. I know you did. We all know you did. You see, I have no choice but to let her leave, and she'll warn them, and . . . you do see the problem?"

The most terrible thing was that it wasn't fear that overtook him. It was a look of the utmost confusion, as if some great mistake had been made. Another red flare rose, this one even closer. The last patrol was retreating, and Richard couldn't comprehend that either. "You can't just do that," he said softly. "It's not your choice to make. This was inevitable from the start, we'd finish here, go to Polostin. It was perfect. It couldn't be called off."

"But called off it was," Liana said, more cheerful than ever. One boot was pressed to his ribs, so lightly as to almost go unnoticed. "I know. You'd rather have died with that smug look on your ugly face, telling yourself how very smart you were, that within a week I'd be in front of a firing squad if I was fortunate. Was that it?" Leaning down then, she too was nearly whispering. "Would you like to know a secret? Your life didn't matter. Your death won't matter. A traitor to the last, and a waste of time from the very start."

Regina met Kosra's empty stare, saw everything she felt within. One man or two hundred: in the space of half a second all she did was position herself in front of Miranda, but Richard moved first. Pulling aside, he looked up urgently and saw them both. "Don't go back to Merestan," he called out hurriedly, voice hoarse. "It was the weapon, it was the man who made it, it was him and it was _her_, and it was Liebert too, no-one else will—"

This shot was not fired into the air. The pistol was lowered, the rifles raised; Kosra hadn't moved at all, frozen in place, and Regina seized Miranda by the arm, certain if she moved at all she would share his fate. It was an unnecessary gesture. That emaciated arm felt as if it were made of stone.

"You just murdered an Alvernian diplomat," Liana said mildly. "No, I take that back. He was executed by that detachment east of here. An old friend took revenge, and so on. Not the most politically expedient move on their part, I'm sure you'll agree. "

It was not a humane execution. One hand feebly pushing at the stones beneath and slipping in a spreading pool of blood, a single shot to the chest had left Richard shuddering on the floor. That in itself could barely inspire even surprise, much less sentiment. It was the sheer superfluousness of the act, the casual contempt, that brought with it the most vivid feeling of revulsion. A sickly gurgling the only noise left, Richard seemed to be choking on his own blood. Even one of the officers recoiled; Regina saw her own response reflected in his eyes, felt the urgent need to move, and for the second time a window far to the east exploded.

But this time Miranda held her back. "Tell me you wanted this," she said in a strained whisper. "Or is that all you can ever do? Sit back and watch? He gave you what you wanted, and what did he get in return? It should have been you instead of him, instead of—"

"Some lives are worth more than others," Liana said, appearing from one side. "Will you admit that now, or do you need another demonstration?" Finally she seemed to be enjoying herself, or was at least convinced the situation was well in hand. To her those were synonymous. "This isn't my ideal either, I assure you—believe me, someone has to salvage this deranged excuse for a revolution."

"You still can't see it, can you?" Regina asked. "You did exactly what they wanted, nothing more. Tell yourself whatever you like—you think they care? Take a look now if you don't believe me." And it was true enough. Kosra had watched motionless, neither approving nor disapproving, content to silently watch this show of hypocrisy, this unknowing confirmation of all she'd denied.

That alone seemed to fuel Liana's next wave of contempt. "Failed protest or meek submission: which would you prefer? Don't think I'm blind. I _have_ to do this, because I just can't afford to disobey them. You _could_ stop me, but you won't pay the price either. It's as simple as that." This time she pointed, but to the lieutenant colonel who'd managed to quietly withdraw back to the truck. "Well, let's try again. If Richard told you so much, and _he_ was there to listen in . . . I do apologise, but I can hardly let you leave without signing my own execution order."

And the same grotesque process began anew. Two rifles were raised; the man Regina had spoken to hesitated if only for a second. But this time the procedure was interrupted; Kosra was many things; a blatant liar was not one of them. Not a single one of his men evidently applied even to the one who'd heard far too much for his own good; in a motion so impassive it seemed inhuman he seized the officer next to him by the throat and threw the man to the ground, rifle and all.

The conditions had changed and movement followed. To buy time, even seconds, was well within their power. Grasping the second's rifle, Regina pulled it aside, but this officer was impossible to overpower; she was thrown down by a heavy blow to the stomach. Almost repositioned, at the last second his hands failed. The dagger had been plunged into the flesh just beneath his shoulder, through the thick indigo cloth, and Regina seized him by one epaulette to drive it through to the arm.

It was a curious moment. Her hand fumbled with the hilt, first from hesitance, from weak grip, and finally when it was slick with blood. It was his exhalation that she felt above all else. The warmth came as such a sharp contrast to the winter night. Over his shoulder she saw the brigadier watching motionless. Perhaps she was even impressed. Kosra had broken the other man's neck, and he too remained unnaturally still.

A shot was fired nonetheless. The third officer, the hesitant man, had found his resolve. Regina turned aside, withdrew the blade, and though that officer's hands were shaking, his face shrouded, he raised the rifle again. Andrey had stumbled back up, one hand on the open door; perhaps it had missed, though the next—there was no time for another. The rifle suddenly seemed too heavy for the man's fingers, a groan escaping his lips, and he fell to his knees, one hand pressed to his abdomen.

A second shot was soon fired from afar, and this one ricocheted off the stones. Liana realised it immediately, but the truck had sputtered to a start, pulling back with all haste for that same western road. Regina was the first to understand what it meant, broken windows and all. "I told you that you were out of time, Brigadier," she said. "And nobody told that sniper why he shouldn't shoot you, so I suggest you listen very carefully. A brigadier for a brigade was a fair trade, you told me. How arrogant can you be? You're not worth it, and we both know it. Forget it all, because here's your chance to make it right. You remember that little envelope? Go where you like, but if a single one of your guests doesn't make it home I'll make your execution the only condition for my cooperation. We both know they'd do it."

Though Regina privately knew, and to judge by Kosra's barely concealed laughter so did he, that to her cooperating with Dmitri Mirzin was possibly the least appealing idea in existence, Liana seemed quick to believe it. There was no quick response then; no self-satisfied smirk, only a quick gesture to both injured officers. One was beyond caring. The other dutifully moved to comply but stumbled and fell, one arm limp at his side. Miranda was standing over both Richard and the officer Kosra had killed. If she had been inexpressive before, this was neither despair nor apathy, but something uglier. Regina offered the injured officer a hand up. "You'll be staying here. If your boss complains I don't know what I'm going to do."

"And you?" Liana said, turning suddenly on Miranda. "You've hovered here all this time and still you do _nothing_? After what Dmitri said to you, after—"

"Another word to her and your career comes to an abrupt end," Kosra said. "I'm the one you wanted, and I'll tell you right here: you were right. We _were_ conspiring. And you can't imagine why even now, can you?" For the first time he turned to Miranda, all hostility slipping away. "I told Mirzin to watch you; I should have known it would come to this. The fault is mine—he'll never get the chance again, you can be sure of that."

"It was never his choice to make," Miranda said, as if only to herself. Her eyes were fixed on the corpse at her feet. "Not a choice at all. To die, and to die in just the right way. I was sure that was the answer, only now I can't seem to see it . . . but if it meant nothing, then why am I . . ."

They were interrupted yet again. A third flare to follow, closer still: the eastern patrol was near, and so were their pursuers. "I said it before," Regina said, hesitant to get any closer, "and I meant it too. You can blame me, if you like. I should've found a way around this."

"You do mean that, don't you?" Miranda finally looked up again, and Regina realised both clarity and lucidity lay under those detached words. "This would've been easier had it been otherwise. Is there still a way, do you think? Yes, I see it now, it's all so clear. You couldn't have done it, not by yourself."

Regina had no answer. The slightest trembling, an almost unnoticeable stiffness: Miranda knelt by both corpses, and no answer was wanted. An hour would've been insufficient, and one word would've been too much. That was the impression she had.

Not only hers. "You're torturing yourselves for answers you already have," Kosra said, standing behind them both. Remaining upright was beginning to look difficult. "Stop pretending to be someone you're not, you told me, so take your own advice." He closed what little distance was left, voice lowered to a near whisper. "You already know what to do. You know who to find. Go. Don't look so glum; you got what you wanted, and you don't even know it."

The senior officer on the scene pushed through for her final moment of spite. "Not another word, Borginian," Liana said. "I won't be their puppet for such a banal vision as yours." She looked at Regina, all traces of amiability long gone. "Keep that in mind. Dmitri is expecting you, and we both know: nobody is irreplaceable."

"That's something you'll see sooner than I will, Brigadier," Regina said, standing up again with effort. Her leg ached as it hadn't for months. "I hope it's easier for you than it was for me."

There was no opportunity here. It simply wouldn't be allowed. Not another word could be exchanged. Kosra knew it too; she could see it in those expressionless eyes. Yet he took one last look around, staring at the injured men and the corpse, and as he did the hand still in his pocket withdrew, a small piece of crumpled paper falling to the floor.

Only Miranda seemed to see, a glimmer of loathing breaking through. "All three of you were so afraid this might end differently," she said quietly, still kneeling next to both corpses. "We wanted this, so it happened. That's why it was inevitable. Another world hidden just out of sight: that's what you were afraid of." Her hollow stare fixed itself on Regina. "There is a way, and I'd like to show you."

Only the gleam of metal revealed the fallen officer's rifle in her hands. The act became a blur, the aftermath unthinkable, if only for those few seconds, and when instinct had faded the truth made itself known. Searching each other for wounds that weren't there, each certain they would be the only target, Regina and Liana realised at the same time, though it was the latter who broke the spell, overcome by a look of profound dread. Kosra stared only at Miranda, or perhaps through her. "I can't see it," he murmured, each word barely a murmur. "This isn't what she told me . . . " It was the faintest hint of amusement, not pain, certainly not fear, that flickered across his features he collapsed onto the stones below.

The rifle slipped from Miranda's fingers, and the moment it did Liana swept forward and seized the shooter by the throat, forcing her to the ground. "Do you know what you've done?" she said, each word seething with contempt and trepidation both. "You've killed him, you've killed yourself, you've—"

Miranda's head hit the stones and she ignored that too. "You murdered him," she said. "One of her only friends, and you took that rifle and shot him. How could you do that? Not the most expedient move on your part, I'm sure you'll agree."

Regina ignored them both, running to Kosra's side. Shuddering and breathing both, consciousness was fleeting, slipping away as she watched. The bullet had entered on the left side, had been quite close to missing entirely, but beneath that ruined cloth another injury had opened back up, and the sickly sweet smell of that was nearly intolerable. In the dim light little more could be seen, and whether even her slight efforts would make any difference at all was impossible to say. They were made, nonetheless.

And to one side dread gave way to something uglier. Trembling ever so slightly, Liana threw the younger woman down again. "I'll find a way around this," she exclaimed, as if it mattered at all to the target of her ire. "I'll hand you back and you'll confess, one way or another."

"You're a spiteful, jealous bigot," Miranda said, quieter than ever. "No-one will believe you. No-one will care. Dmitri will listen to me, and I can't imagine what they'll do to you." With some difficulty she stood up, lethargy returning as she did, and looked only at Regina. "I changed the rules, and now there's a way. Can't you see it?"

"Oh, I certainly see it," Liana said, maintaining even a hint of composure only with extraordinarily effort. "And I've had _enough _of hearing about what Dmitri will and won't think." That didn't last for long, and she turned back for another attempt. "What leverage do you think you have? He hasn't heard from you in a month. Didn't you consider this for even half a second? I'll tell him you shot yourself. Who'd be surprised? Who would even care? I could tell him all two hundred of them had their way with you before leaving your battered body in a ditch—you just murdered your last friend, you petulant child. Any story will do."

Miranda, at least, certainly didn't care. Not about the insults, nor the threats, and not when that same pistol was pressed into her stomach. Perhaps she was looking forward to it. It repeated again and again, and for all their attempts the same answers presented themselves. The one remaining officer, one arm limp at his side, went for his rifle. Regina was the only one to see, kicked it aside, and him with it. The rules hadn't just changed, they'd been swept aside entirely.

Liana knew it too, but didn't have the chance. A moment's hesitance was all it took. Seizing the would-be shooter's arm, Regina forced it and the pistol down and pulled her aside. "I'm not going to sit back and watch you make the same mistake a third time." This officer she could overpower, and the pistol soon clattered onto the stones below.

Any protest was cut short by a shout in the east. The eastern patrol had nearly returned. "I'll be finished," Liana whispered. "Do you understand? What they'll think of this, even the slightest chance . . ." All resistance ceased in an instant. "They'll come for you too, they'll blame us both. We can spin this however we like, we'll be the last two—_just let me kill her_."

Standing by the open door of the brigadier's own car, Miranda was watching with her usual disregard for self-preservation. The engine was running, and she was not. "What are you waiting for?" Regina asked. Holding Liana back was more difficult by the second. "I've found it, you understand? _Go._ I'll handle this, I'll cover you—you can't be here when that patrol gets back."

Miranda, curious as it was, believed it without hesitation. There was something here, Regina had realised, an unprecedented opportunity. Appearances cast aside, and what was underneath? A general officer with nowhere to go, and perhaps, just perhaps, even more than that. The car pulled aside—clearly the driver was new to this entire experience—and Liana had little choice but to watch as her complicity was sealed forever.

"You've ruined me," she said, voice hoarse. "I was so close to finding proof, to doing this legitimately, and you just . . ."

"It's not pleasant, is it?" Regina said quietly. "But he's not dead yet. Neither are you. You can't go back, can you? You're too scared to go back. I don't blame you, all things considered."

"You think you're very clever, don't you? I don't need to hear it. I will not go to one of Anton Royce's prisons. Shoot me if you like; I'm beyond caring. A bridagier for a brigade after all: well, at least I won't be going alone."

"Don't be theatrical," Regina said. "Who said anything about Royce? After all this you really think I'd settle for something as boring as that?" Reaching across, she pulled each medal from the brigadier's chest and threw them aside. "But I didn't endure this just to go back empty handed. I meant what I said. You and me, we're going to play a little game."

Indignation was put aside, the medals forgotten. "You have to be the most infuriating—"

"Here's your lifeline," Regina said, pointing at the stars on her epaulettes. "Get rid of those. Nobody knew who you were before tonight, and nobody'll know after. You don't exist, Brigadier. I'll take you back with me, and we're going to make sure neither Royce nor Anders ever knows you were here. You'll disappear, just like I did."

"And in return?" The lifeline had been seized, nonetheless. "Neither of is going to pretend this is altruism. You're not following orders, so what are you doing?"

"Showing you an alternative. You wouldn't shut up about this Lieutenant General Liebert, so how would you like a chance to find him? If this works you won't have to deal with being used or sent off to die for nothing again, not like this. Like the sound of that? Then play along for a while. I'll need your help with this."

And the patrol had turned the corner. Not half an hour left, a woman in tan announced as they reached the plaza, a rifle clutched in both hands. She came to an abrupt halt, a sharp intake of breath announcing the discovery. "Just what have you done? Which of you—" The sheer quantity of bodies, injured or otherwise, took her breath away in full. A second engine could be heard, this one familiar and approaching for the second time.

"See that car?" Regina said, pointing at the distant northern exit. "Your shooter is already gone, but she'll be blaming us for it. Maybe she's right, too. Either way, after tonight I wouldn't go back to Merestan. Not after this." Throwing one hand over Liana's shoulder, she looked at the patrol captain as if they were old friends. "We need to move quickly. What's that insignia—first lieutenant?"

A baffled nod confirmed it, her rifle lowering by the second. The other two patrolmen were kneeling next to Kosra, attempting to do anything at all to slow the bleeding.

"Here's the plan," Regina announced, turning to the patrol captain. "Your lieutenant colonel is alive and well, and I expect he'll be here soon. A little after that and that detachment in the east will arrive to murder you all. Correct?" Another nod, even slower. "I have good news. Nobody else is going to get shot, and nobody's going to prison either."

III

Allegiance and intention had blurred into a grey haze, one that shifted as it would, stripping both meaning and certainty from both the surface world and what lay beneath. One truth was uncovered, another revealed, each more illusory than the last. Accepting transience was a step away from accepting uncertainty, and something tangible had been grasped here.

The first step was a silent success. Both officers seemed to have more reservations about this than could be expressed in twenty hours, much less twenty minutes. Looking first at each other and then Regina, who acted with all the certainty they lacked, the first lieutenant and the brigadier agreed not to disagree, at the very least. And what choice did they have? There were more serious concerns at hand.

The very same damaged truck from the very same hillside road returned, and for the second time the driver who emerged was a young man who'd seen better days. Shrouded in darkness though they were, the driver visibly turned back. Regina realised what he was doing in an instant and leapt up; the two of them pulled all of Dylan's equipment to the remnants of the great fire. The two patrolmen set to work assembling the radios, and despite her clear loathing for the task Liana did exactly as asked. Hers was the first call, but not the last.

Evidently Levin had spent the night pacing the deck of his new warship, working himself into a veritable fit over his self-imposed lack of control. Dylan handled that the moment Liana was finished, though even she looked increasingly bemused at the impressive string of profanity emerging from Levin's end of the conversation.

The second step was equally successful, though hardly silent. A belated execution order called off, a battalion convinced that all was well, and a hundred and eighty hostages saved for a while longer. Not only that. Any question of anti-air rifles had been quashed, and their flight home was carrying half of Levin's medical staff. It seemed little more than a formality, though none of them verbalised that sentiment. Nothing at all was said for some time, curiously enough, and that in itself was a minor relief. They all knew, they were all aware, they had all met. Spontaneous movement remained a distinct feature of reality.

As for the man himself, his prospects remained rather dubious. In the light Kosra's abdomen was soaked in blood, skin pale and clammy, shuddering and uncomfortably feverish. He'd mercifully escaped a wound that would have been immediately fatal. Size certainly did count for something. The earlier injury looked weeks old and was weeping some sort of foul liquid. Not his first encounter with a bullet, evidently. Regina didn't mention it, but she couldn't believe that Miranda had intended to kill him. Shooting someone in the hope that it wouldn't be fatal seemed baffling enough, or would've had it not enabled this rather unique sequence of events to take place.

Dylan did most of the work here; he was somewhat more familiar than most with the intricacies of being shot. He'd survived worse, he announced, and after showing the curious onlookers exactly where he'd been shot they could do little but agree. Not a vital organ scratched to his judgment, Dylan told them, scoffing at the indignity of it all. True as that might have been, appreciated as his efforts to play the confident saviour were, certainty remained as absent as ever. The bullet was lodged into Kosra's side, just below the ribs, and none of them dared to look much further, trying to piece the mass of ruined flesh back together as best they could. The few words he did murmur in the odd moment of lucidity didn't encourage further exploration. Perhaps it wouldn't be fatal. None of them could believe it.

"I was right, you know," Andrey murmured, taking Regina to one side. "My lovely life was ruined when I met you. I can't say I expected the prediction to be so literal." A moment of hesitance pre-empted the truth, as ever. "Why did she do it? All we did, were trying to do. I spent a month at Miranda's side, and I never did believe . . . what could I have done differently?"

"I don't think that question has an answer," Regina said. "I know I've never found one. Just don't blame yourself, and don't blame her either. It was a sick situation from start to finish. For now I'd focus on what's right in front of us. This has to be convincing."

"_This _is a very vague way to put . . . this," Andrey said, his eyes fixed on one figure in particular. "Should I ask? She did try to murder me, after all. I never appreciated how appealing that could be before, well, right now, though I really shouldn't be staring . . ."

Off to one side the unfortunate brigadier was exchanging her uniform with that of one of her even less fortunate subordinates. Indigo was unavoidable, but all those bars and stripes simply wouldn't do. Efficiency, at least, was one of her virtues. Perhaps the only one. "She's a boring old first lieutenant now," Regina said. "Nobody at all, really. And don't look so conflicted. She wanted you dead; now she doesn't—if that's not exciting, nothing is. You'll have some time to get used to it, if you want. We're taking her with us; giving her friend to Gail to keep him quiet. Call it protective custody, call it whatever."

"You've a rather devious mind, but they'll never believe that. A little old for the job, you might say, and the second she opens her snide mouth—"

"She's not the one they'll be looking at."

"Well, that's only to be expected," Andrey said, as if it were all obvious. "They didn't come all this way for some half dead nobody while you take all the—" Realisation quickly set in, his eyes widening. "Oh, you can't possibly mean. . . . Tell me it's not true."

Regina let out a long held breath. "Sorry to say it, but you're the only who knows enough to cover this up. You're not Kosra; you'll be a political detainee, nothing more, and only for a week or two. Really. They're too scared to antagonise Borginia now, so play along until I can get you released. Think of it as a well-earned break."

"You know, my mother told me not to join the army," Andrey said, running one hand over his face. "My father told me to take a desk job. I told them: I'd have done just that if you'd left me alone a day in my life. Orders all the way down, that's all it was." He held out one hand. "Truth be told, I could use a change in scenery."

Not an order, but perhaps an inevitability. Something rather disconcerting was happening here. A subdued celebration soon emanated from the small group around Kosra. They'd slowed the bleeding, if nothing else, in what looked and sounded to be a truly excruciating operation. Not quite awake, but not quite unconscious either: there were some signs for hope. Nearby the patrol captain, uncomfortable though she clearly was, had sat down to try and bandage the surviving guardsman's shoulder. Near what had once been the enormous fire the brigadier's discarded uniform had been thrown over Richard as a sort of blanket; the murderer in her ill-fitting replacement stood alone beside the corpse, staring into the distant sky.

Regina didn't quite know what to think about that. One concern dominated all their thoughts, something that had once been avoidable and was now inescapable. As expected Gail had marched his entire detachment through the night in pursuit. They would arrive shortly. If decisions were indeed made in a framework presented from without, they would simply have to construct a scenario which would leave Gail with a set of choices that were equally palatable, and for all involved. That was the aim, and to Regina it looked likely to succeed. Her own part gave the most cause for concern. Their history was a long and difficult one, and he would see her slightest error as the subterfuge it was. They were well beyond taking appearances as the whole truth.

It was becoming apparent, though for the longest time Regina had told herself otherwise, that in place of overt lies she opted for subtle shifts in perspective, of framing, that diverted attention far from what she intended to conceal. Why bother lying? An outright lie was too tangible, too much of a vulnerability. This was negation by definition, only identifiable by what wasn't said, or done, or felt. An undeniable sense of absence was becoming ever more difficult to put out of mind. Negating negation remained as difficult a prospect as ever, and inclination readily gave way to inanition.

One other unfortunate reality went without saying. Whatever version of events Miranda reported, assuming she even did return to Merestan, three significant people had entered this town and vanished off the face of the earth. Richard, Kosra, and Liana: even if Gail hadn't brought the army to this very town on the same night the implication would be no less dire. All the necessary fuel was in place. The slightest spark, as Richard had said, was all they needed. They'd been given that and much more; a veritable wildfire was there for the taking.

If Kosra survived his position would be difficult beyond all comprehension. Amiable, yes, but there was something disturbing under that veneer, and of a rare sort. The same paradoxical indifference made manifest that Regina recalled from Anders in a different form, that was it. And as Miranda had pointed out: he really was one of her only friends. One like mind among thousands—surely even someone such as Eliza would feel the loss; true indifference rarely birthed such activity as hers, and anguish masked by contempt left its mark no less keenly than when revealed for all to see. Regina found there was no satisfaction in the thought.

Though the message had been delivered, Regina thought, if not in words. If Kosra's friend, so eager to make contact, was the head of the army—but there was no doubt. Liebert was the only one left. Those who escaped from this curious rooftop encounter, and their identities seemed all but assured, would be impossible to find. Put that way, there was only one option. It all pointed back to the north. There, or perhaps to Merestan. The weight of the blue envelope in one pocket grew heavier with each second until it was almost intolerable. Even the material felt somehow sacrilegious.

Three spectres from the past refused to stay buried. Dmitri Mirzin was the only one who Regina was sure could be found, and the last she wanted to see. If Edward Kirk hadn't just survived, as had been implied, but had connected with Liebert, much as Kosra had come here to do the same in the south, that didn't give much cause for comfort. The third of the three was alive and well, if Miranda was to be believed, and Harper had a talent for obscenely violent responses to perceived slights. There were two men he certainly would despise above all others. No doubt that inclination would be encouraged by his new friends, if only for their own peace of mind. Be as violent as you like, but not in the living room: in Anders' place, Regina knew she'd have taken that approach.

One question remained. What sort of man was this Lieutenant General Liebert? Quite a risk on his part, and for what? Matters of state somehow seemed a rather absurd explanation. The opposite, perhaps, would be the answer. Centralisation at a levers' end: that was what the Third Energy offered. Liana's outburst may well have been an accurate one. Not your country, not your people: and it was true enough that the Third Energy hadn't been used again, not so much as mentioned. It was cold and impersonal, the facilitator of grand ends, and the disavowal of grand ends for their own sake was exactly what split this curious alliance down the middle.

Alone again, watching all of them from the remnants of the great fire, Regina found the crumpled piece of paper grasped in one hand. Two words had been written in Kosra's untidy scrawl, and confirmation with them. _Ibis Island_. Regina read the page again, searched for any missed details, found none, and finally turned it over. On the other side was a single line. _We want to destroy it._

A long breath was let out, the skies seemed to clear, and if there was any time left to pass it did so quickly. There it was again. The truth lay in what hadn't been said, in the negative space left by any number of useless words and gestures. All the answers had been found, and none spoken. Finally it was Dylan who approached, the operation concluded, and forced it out of her mind. "A time will come when you'll explain this to me," he said quietly. "Every detail, every little lie. All of it."

"You know most of it. Watching from that tower, were you? I never actually expected you'd come down here."

"I never did like to be a spectator," Dylan said. "Two of them showed up at that hillside exit a little after you did. I'm not stupid; I knew what it meant. Kosra the foreign mercenary, not such a bad guy at all. You know he told me to watch out for you?"

Regina looked across at that dismal scene again. "Did he really?" All three patrolmen and the injured guardsman were sitting around the prone body. "I want to say he didn't see this coming, but the look on his face . . . it's like he wasn't even surprised. Thought it was funny, or something."

Dylan scowled at that. "There's something foul in the air tonight," he said. "Can't you feel it? It's like a weight, dragging us all down. The sooner we get out of here, the better. I admit, I am impressed. Talk about making the best of a bad situation."

"Something foul in the air," Regina repeated, testing each word. "There's always something foul in the air, and it's always a bad situation. You ever notice that? Always someone else's problem, that's how I saw it. In the military or out of it: no matter how many times this happened it was like it had nothing to do with me. I can't get that out of my head. Never did find a way around it, but I never needed one. Only now . . . "

"Me and Anton, we thought we'd found a way," Dylan said. "Mikhail said it was a waste of time, but we did what we had to do. Wasn't like we could just pack it up and go home, right? Turns out political revolutions are cheap. If you want to live in a world without constraints you're out of luck."

"You can keep your politics; who'd need orders from above to see just how fucked this was from start to finish? Constraints are fine, but this? I had to choose between letting one man die and letting two hundred die. What kind of choice is that? It's rotten to the core."

"Is that what this was about?" Dylan asked, gesturing at the surrounds. He pointed to Liana, still standing over the corpse. "Hiding her? And that woman, the one who fled . . . how are we going to explain this to Mikhail? He's coming here himself, you do realise? Not to mention Gail, when he sees that body. Hereson's propagandist _here_? They knew each—"

"I killed her parents, didn't I?"

Dylan didn't move, and for some time he didn't speak either. "You didn't know?" he finally asked, still entirely motionless. "I was sure . . . the day I was shot, on that island, she was there. Showed up with Gail; must make a habit of keeping odd company." An instinctual grimace couldn't be avoided. "I overheard them from the floor. Not anyone's finest hour, that."

"We did it like it was nothing," Regina said quietly. "Both on the same day, without a second thought. It was routine. I can barely remember even now. Not even why. All I remember is the photograph. Him, his wife, and his daughter. She looked so miserable, even there."

"How can you be so casual about it?" Dylan asked, turning back in a second. "All that time, you were so close, she could've—" He seemed to be struggling to find the words. "I thought you _knew. _I thought you had it handled."

"I think I see it, actually," Regina said, calmer than ever. "It's not like I didn't deserve it, is it? The perfect chance, every reason in the world to try. Threats or not, some people just don't care." All she could do then was look at the clouded expression on this man's face. "And here I am, still alive. Hardly seems possible, does it? There's your gesture of freedom."

Dylan hardly seemed to have heard. "You went in blind, and I didn't even know it. I was so sure Gail would've said something. In all these months . . ."

"He didn't mention it, not even once. I'm no better than he is. Worse, really. At least he doesn't hide it. To make this work I have to feed him another lie, and make sure he swallows it. It really is detestable."

"The mask comes off, and this is what's underneath," Dylan said. "I would've let it go, you know. I always do, and I always regret it. But you were the one who wanted to talk about repetition. Same story, different face, is that it? Then I need you to understand something. I can play along. I did it with Anton, I did with it Eliza; I'm doing it with Mikhail. Only I learned my lesson too." He gestured at the corpses, at the empty streets. "I've had this same conversation too many times, and I need to know I'm not doing it again. Tell me where this is going, or you can do it yourself."

"You can relax, Dylan. I don't intend to hide it from you. It's just . . . a different time, a different place, and we're still playing the same sick game. We're the ones who always say we don't want this." One hand brushed against the envelope in its pocket. "That we just _have _to do it. The murderer and her victim both. These vile memories, and nights like this: if there really isn't a way around it, if this is how it's always going to be, I don't think I can keep doing this."

In the west the slightest hint of a buzz could be heard, stronger by the second, and Dylan's expression grew even cloudier. "I don't disagree with you, but that's not an answer."

"And I'm not sure I have one," Regina said. "Richard had a plan. Forget their wars, forget the provocation: take down the figureheads and force the rest of them out of hiding. Cut the strings. That'd be a start, anyway. After she shot him . . . I'd forgotten it, and him, to be honest with you. Only I look around now and all I see is that it's worked perfectly. Maybe that's your answer."

"Maybe it's my answer, but it's not yours," Dylan said quietly. "I know how this works. And even if Kosra's group is permanently out of the picture, with the state's army backing them none of this'll make much difference. So their mobility's taken a hit, but it's hardly fatal. They'll find a new brigadier, they'll find a third Kosra, the army—"

"Lieutenant General Liebert is the third on the list," Regina said, "and if I'm sure of anything it's that we're not the only ones looking for a way out." A shout came from the east; the patrol captain waved urgently at them. "But maybe I was wrong not to tell you. Listen, Dylan. Richard's plan would work, but after tonight I think there's a better one. Somewhere to go, and everything we need to get there. Would you trust me with that much?"

Another shout came, even more urgent. They had arrived. Andrey and his three comrades huddled together in a circle, the last words issued in whispers. Three trucks turned the corner, soon coming to a halt, and several armoured cars were following. It was the first arrival of many, they all knew. As peculiar as it was, they both began to feel more aligned with this group of cast out officers and foreign militiamen than their own factional allies. Nonetheless, familiarity could be such a relief even at the worst of times. Tall, clothed in deep grey, and blonde, the very first man to exit had no concern for subtlety. He scanned the scene with unrivalled detachment, issuing orders all the while. Liana looked at them both, nodded slightly, and took a rather deep breath. Her performance had started in earnest.

"Only if you introduce me to your new friends," Dylan said. He didn't hide his amusement. Nor his relief, either. "Look, I'm in, and not just for tonight, but you'd better not disappoint. Once the dust settles we'll get Mikhail in on this too. I know, I know. Just trust me with him." The slightest twitch of protest was stifled in an instant. "Might as well face it now: your new line doesn't leave much room to go sneaking off on your own. We're all stuck in this together, right? I could get used to that."

"Is that so?" Regina asked, though not with any vigour. "You're still hiding something. I know I didn't keep to the schedule. All the threats we made, the mess this turned into . . . why'd you hesitate?"

Dylan just laughed. "How was I supposed to know? I gave you my only watch."


	39. Chapter 39

A certain suspicion had long clouded Edward Kirk's thoughts. Thrust a man into the worst, most wretched, least alterable of circumstances, and leave him there. All complaints were to be dutifully ignored. Return after a month or three and what would be found? No doubt that man's struggle would continue until the inner world once more reflected the outer or ceased to reflect anything at all. But struggle was useless in this experiment, and submission seemed the inevitable outcome. That, at least, held true on both a collective and individual scale. The damage done to the Alvernian social landscape had finally crossed that illusive border upon which a mass of quantitative changes becomes qualitative. True or not, existence went on much as it always had. These were the conditions, and they had to be tolerated.

Unfortunately that dreary city, ancient and sprawling, scarcely seemed to tolerate anyone. The resentment here was long held, and bitter, and resurfaced if given the slightest opportunity. It was a fortunate day if the number of corpses found by nightfall need only be listed in a single column. Even that took on a rather muted note, as if each fresh outrage began to inspire more exhaustion than excitement. Legitimacy, reason, purpose: each had long since smeared into dull grey vapour. Each continued in one shape or another nonetheless, and with unceasing vigour.

In a sense that may have been the problem and the solution both. Struggle and agony and frenzy were the norm here, etched into the very stone itself. Even before the invasion it had been a harsh life, cold and unyielding. There was a vibrancy to the air; a blatant refusal to submit, to fall down into the snow and die, however reasonable a course of action that may have seemed. And there was purpose here, an object to be seized and smashed. Who could deny that for all the uncountable discomforts this was a place where you could feel alive?

Merestan felt remarkably different. It was the visage of a decaying civilisation, a city falling into disrepair and irrelevance, each day a stark reminder of what had been lost and what continued to slip away piece by piece, neither deliberate nor chosen. There was little left but lethargy, to be ground down to nothing by natural and social forces beyond anyone's control. That or revolt, to collectively discard an inhuman way of life, alienation and immiseration both. That had been entirely natural, and it had come to nothing. Few bothered to deny it now.

On that pleasant afternoon, deep in the clutches of the bitterest winter known to memory, resentment had perhaps lost its descriptive power. The skies too were a heavy grey, as if the sun were soon to set, though in truth it was barely past noon. Few corpses had been found yet, though many of the roads were still coated in a vile substance that had once been snow. Corpses would have been easier endured. No doubt another storm would descend on them from the western sea before the night's end and wash the filth away.

Even that had lost its novelty. There was no tolerance for grandeur here, and so Edward led three companions through the thin crowds on their way to that most illustrious of destinations. A phone booth concealed in the western train depot. Some sights, however, had yet to become routine, and abstract thought gave way to more immediate concerns.

"Anya, would you be so kind as to tell me the Borginian word for famine?"

"You can tell me why or you can go find a dictionary. Don't think I'll let this become a habit."

"If you'd just answered it would've saved us an argument."

"What am I, your translator?" Anya asked. "Learning another language here is just . . . it's unnecessary. Like an extra finger. Useless."

"You never know when you might need an extra finger," Edward said. "Generosity is a virtue. I read that on a poster once. Read it in Borginian." He pointed at the apartments ahead. "More to the point, the food lines are growing longer. I doubt I'm the first to make that observation."

"You'd be better off learning whatever it is they're speaking," Andrea Kesler interjected, dry as ever, gesturing at the rather prominent crowd with one gloved hand. A heated argument, one of many, was proceeding in some unintelligible dialect. "Right by the military depot. Just a coincidence, sure. Nice day for it, don't you think? Sure."

Not the first such encounter, nor the last. Much of the populace still relied on rations handed out by men in uniforms. As could be expected for a people defined by contempt for their southern neighbours, pride in a battered cultural heritage, perpetual uncertainty, and the resulting tendency to isolationism, humiliation had a way of accompanying each meal. As was inevitable, that only inflamed the dissenters further.

Slowing to an inadvertent halt, they watched the crowds for a moment. As ever, black uniformed military police supervised the proceedings. New arrivals pushed through, others left, and the mood already seemed sour. None of them seemed able to mention it again. Famine was a real risk, too concrete to be taken lightly. Its shadow had swept over all of what had once been Alvernia; most of the arable land fell within Polostin's sphere of influence, and most of the populace within Merestan's. That alone painted a rather depressing picture for the near future.

And as if understanding all of that, the last of their group pointed cheerfully at the depot in question at the far end of this arterial road. "There are nine trains scheduled to arrive this afternoon," Lyra announced. "I wouldn't worry. Everyone agrees: the lieutenant general _has _to have shipped in more provisions, even if they do hate him. Liebert's sleazy, but he's not incompetent."

Edward could only look at her in silence for a moment, both baffled and impressed. "How do you know all that?" he asked mildly. "I do have a high opinion of my cognitive abilities, you know, but these details tend to get lost somewhere along the way."

"Are you saying we'd be better off without you?" Kesler asked. "Sometimes I do miss your old arrogance. No, not often. And I'll take that back; it's better you stay. If I have to sit through one of Liebert's speeches again I'll end up shooting us both."

"You're out of luck," Edward said, unable to restrain the slightest sneer. "The rumour is that he's come back _and_ he'll be making a speech at northern command. Tonight. We'll be attending, of course, and I do mean we_. _Don't look so miserable. He's never boring, is he?"

"He's all yours, really," Kesler said, still looking at the crowd. In all these months she hadn't relaxed once, and wasn't about to start then. "Smug, unpredictable, closer to sociopathic than I'd like, and did I mention smug?"

"And with that settled can we please get off the streets?" Anya asked. Shivering on the spot, she seemed entirely unable to adjust to the hideous climate. "I'm supposed to be guarding you, right? Then listen." Gesturing at nothing in particular, the point was made nonetheless. "Something is _wrong. _Can't you feel it? Johan keeps telling me his men are outnumbered and useless, so come on. Hurry up, go. The station's heated: what more do you need?"

An eminently practical point. The streets around them swarmed with activity, rumours and frenzied movement, between and through this divide or that, from and to the military and the dissidents and the refugees all: just what had happened in the south? Some declared as many as six thousand men dead in a skirmish which had burned entire towns off the map. Others sneered at their pretensions, though even they still believed the lesser claim that an Alvernian diplomat and six senior officers had been murdered by Anton Royce's thugs. Others dared to say nothing had happened at all, that it was the same sequence of feigned outrages that had pre-empted the invasion here. Many more simply didn't care. Let Merestan and Polostin burn to the ground, good riddance to both—that was an especially popular view.

In Edward's eyes the truth would likely never be known, and so the only reality worth any thought was the one manifesting before their eyes. Each of his group had varying opinions on these rumours, frustratingly so. This had been vigorously argued for the last week or so in a variety of scenic locales. For as uncomfortable as it was here, they'd found this harsh place readily accepted those who could tolerate its discomforts, and they had settled in quite openly. The influence of Jean Liebert went a long way in this regard, and it was he who they intended to contact then.

The exact nature of their relationship eluded categorisation even then. Nothing so definite as to be conspiratorial, hardly casual or especially friendly, and yet there was something between them, some implicit understanding on both sides. So it was for everyone. Half the city planned to seize northern command at the first opportunity. Little wonder Liebert had yet to return in person. A return to Merestan, a weakened Merestan, was what most of their allies wanted, yet Edward found it hard to care. This place or that, one much like the other. It all blurred together in time. He looked at Anya again. A foreign friend, a bodyguard, an intermediary: none of it fit, and there she was. And to his left. There was something more tangible there. A trusted ally, a respected friend: one he was more grateful for than could be expressed. Kesler coordinated a loose group of dissidents, one which could perhaps be called into service. One that implicitly expected such a call in the near future.

Lyra fit the same description, only with less ease. Often she would stare into the distant sky when nobody was looking, her nights spent sleepless; many were occupied alone, wandering the streets with no concern for the risk, her days passing with reserve and efficiency both. Edward rarely mentioned it. She preferred the solitude, he knew all too well.

"Hey, back of the line," a woman said, pushing him aside. Something else was said, missed by him. They had inadvertently reached the food lines and the crowd. People were gathering in the alleys, a poor sign on the best of days.

Anya seized the assailant in an instant, holding her back by both arms. "You think we came here for that sludge?" she asked, subtle as ever. No resistance was offered, a rather fortunate turn of events. "Take it all for yourself, I insist. You look like you need it. But keep your hands to yourself; people might get the wrong idea."

"Let her go, would you?" Edward asked quietly. "Don't mistake me, I do appreciate . . . but you don't see the error in this. Not here, not now."

"Oh, don't say that," the assailant said. "A Borginian _and_ an Alvernian, just my luck. Go tell your friends in black and they'll sort me out. Lack of discipline in the lines: it's simply not done."

"If you think antagonising people for their accents is justifiable you might as well ask for your own uniform." A buzzing filled Edward's mind, and he found could barely focus. "And we've as many reasons to shun the army as you, so go condescend to someone else. I haven't the patience for it."

Finally released, she approached more carefully, leaning in to whisper in his ear: "If you meant that then come help us out. Let's get them before they get us. Maybe you're not a military man, but you're still southerners. Give us something to _observe_. Something we're not expecting."

Edward had no response to that. None was needed. Perhaps the offer was genuine, but it couldn't be done, wouldn't be done, and they all knew it. The northern woman just laughed, taking a step back. "That's what I thought. Just like he said. You're all the same."

Finally Edward looked at her without pause. Quite tall, long brown hair almost to her waist, surprisingly gentle features, and a distinctive accent: one of the soldiers reached them, as expected, and forced her back into the line. More were arriving by truck even then. All of it faded away. Something about that felt disquieting, and he was finding it harder to focus by the second. Nausea overcame all else.

"You alright?" that soldier asked, looking between the four of them. "They're looking for any excuse today, and you'd just about do it." Fortunately he didn't seem to recognise them, or perhaps he did, clapping a hand on Edward's shoulder. "If you're looking for a meal I'd suggest the barracks. You're . . . well, they'd let you in. Better there than here."

"Thanks for the offer," Kesler said. "And here's some advice: you're outnumbered five to one. Reinforce or retreat. You can't hold them and they know it."

Edward barely heard. All he could see was the mocking look the northern woman gave him over the soldier's shoulder. He saw something terrible in that knowing smile, but it was too late; by then she was out of sight. At the front of the line one group started to push for position, attracting more guards. Something was not as it seemed, and this was but a distraction.

The western train station was the largest, and one of the central hubs of activity for both the military and the residents. Refugees too had taken to using it as a point of shelter, as had just about everyone else swept to this miserable place by one tragedy or another. No less true on that day, the only difference was that something resembling order had been imposed by the masses of black uniformed guards.

A sizeable complex, more impressive than most, the entire depot and its surrounds had been built in a local style, which was to say that it resembled a sprawling maze of stone halls and corridors. This feature held true for much of the local architecture, and the epitome of this could be seen in northern command itself. Only the central station, well-lit by windows in the roof above, broke the monotonous pattern of corridors and alcoves, packed to the walls with any number of impatient visitors.

Regular contact was essential here, and difficult to come by. To the south was Provost Marshal Johan, who stubbornly insisted on not choosing himself a surname, and to the west and its sea were Rick and Melissa and their own pseudonyms. Contact with Borginia was their aim; life in the northern capital had been intolerable for both, though neither had quite known why. It took a certain indifference, Edward thought, a level of resignation, to live as they did then. Not only to tolerate it, but perhaps to enjoy it. Both contacts and supplies were steadily trickling in from their distant allies, and they expected the same on that day. The first train of nine had arrived, covered in thick armour, several cannons prominently on display, and trailing more carriages than could be counted. They watched the proceedings, detachment turning to boredom.

"I suppose it was too much to ask for Liebert to spontaneously manifest at our convenience," Edward remarked, barely heard by anyone. "Though that is how he made his first appearance. Set high standards if you must, Jean, but at least have the courtesy to be consistent."

"You still believe he's coming himself?" Lyra asked. The phone booth in question had been found, and she leaned against it if only because standing still felt so very awkward for someone so lanky. "I wouldn't if I were him. But even if he is here, he's so hard to pick out in a crowd. I mean, he has to be the most unremarkable looking man I've ever met, which isn't to say unattractive, exactly, only—"

"I'll say unattractive if you won't," Anya murmured, scanning the crowds as she did.

"I'd like to comment," Edward added, "and I usually have an opinion on everything. Not that, unfortunately. I do believe he's here, even now; he's too obsessed with flamboyancy to stay at home while the world burns around him."

"Of course he's here," Anya said. "He's probably watching right now, the sneak, I can just feel—" A sharp intake of breath cut her next words off. Perhaps a minor miracle had indeed occurred; without any warning at all she ran off to the central platform, pushing any number of people aside and, as the rest of them watched, utterly bemused, embraced a rather tall man in quite a touching and perhaps overly enthusiastic show of affection.

The man Anya had so cheerfully retrieved, and a few of his confused followers, soon came in sight. She seemed to be dragging him over whether he liked it or not. Tall, middle-aged, clothed in the black uniform of an officer: despite all the evidence of hard living etched into his features, this unfortunate man indulged his friend's peculiarities with all the humour in the world. Not that she saw that, of course, determined as she was.

"Probably not Jean, then," Edward said pensively.

"What tipped you off, genius?" Kesler said. Somehow the most caustic utterances came to feel almost friendly. Gravity without acid was the real cause for concern with her. "So are you calling Liebert, or shall I? No guarantees my poor diplomatic skills will get us anywhere, of course."

"Well, he's not limping is he?" Edward remarked, as if that were the key to everything. "And I suppose I'll have to make the call, given your obstinance. Only I'd rather get this over with first, at least assuming nobody bombs the station, which is as real a possibility as ever. He'll just have to wait, and if he doesn't like it he can make an appointment."

"I can do it, if you like," Lyra said quietly. "No problem at all."

"That would be ideal, really," Edward said, trying with moderate success to convey his gratitude. It was admittedly true that they had very short windows of time with which to contact the senior officer. "Now aside from the usual we only really have one question. What on earth has his legion of idiots been doing in the south? This was not on the programme we agreed to; feel free to insult him if you like, and—"

"No need for any of that," a man announced, mildly amused as he was. "You're well past having to resort to phones, I can tell you now." Finally released from Anya's iron grip, he looked over the three of them, sighed quite openly, and held out one hand.

"Provost Marshal Johan, how glad we are to see you," Edward said, taking the older man's offered hand in the full awareness that they were being watched. A flash of mocking eyes on one side—was it the same? And steely grey on another, gone in an instant.

Johan was no less aware; a Borginian exile given such a high office had no time for complacency. Though he had a little for courtesy. "Not as glad as I was to hear she's had some fun up here with the lot of you," he said, nodding to Anya, who'd calmed down a little. "This might've gone another way had it been otherwise, you understand?"

"Then you can relax on that account," Edward said. "I'm not currently offering _otherwise _as a solution; what you see is more or less what you get. And what about you? You've come a long way, and on a military train armed to the teeth. Nobody needs anti-tank rifles for a social visit."

"They're not staying for long," Kesler said, as if there was no mystery to be solved at all. "That is, if everything Liebert said wasn't complete and utter shit they aren't staying for long."

"You're familiar with this process, I know, and you're right." Johan seemed perpetually stuck somewhere between impressed and bored, unable to refrain from that slightest insult. "Two-thirds of the state's army withdrawn within a year, Liebert promised, and he's found a way to do it within a month. The word is the border's gone up in smoke, and he's calling back the garrisons. All these trains are bringing in a lot of supplies and bringing out a lot of soldiers."

"And tonight's when he makes the announcement public," Edward concluded. "You know what this means? If they want an uprising they'll get one. No, let me guess: the one-third left will conveniently have been screened to only include those who sympathise with the local cause?"

"Not only them, but Liebert too," Kesler said quietly, as if only to herself. "This could get very ugly, very quickly, and we'll be stuck in the middle of it." Her good mood, such as it was, evaporated in a second. "I'm heading out, Edward. Preparations to make: you know the sort."

"Only too well. I'll see you soon, I'm sure—double the watch, would you?"

Johan raised an eyebrow at that, saying nothing. There was no watch at all that wasn't strictly her domain, and so for him to double the watch would leave things exactly as they were. Not a lie at all, really. Yet Johan remained reluctant. Anya, having known him the longest, seemed to realise something and pulled Lyra away on some pretext, the latter already terribly preoccupied with Kesler murmuring instructions in one ear.

Around them the crowds were growing uneasy. A military train as the first arrival rarely boded well; the unloading proceeded with some difficulty, and at least two people had their ribs smashed with rifles for truly obnoxious behaviour. A second train would be there soon, they all knew, and through the shouting and commotion it was hard to see anything at all. Something bitter was brewing; Johan's escort eyed off both Kesler and Lyra, likely recognising the former, and seemed to shrug, all of them wordlessly combining forces. At a slight gesture from Johan Anya joined them, now looking almost morose. Another short glance back, a barely noticeable nod, and Kesler disappeared into the crowds.

"I thought you, at least, would be happier," Johan said the moment they were alone. "You realise what Liebert's offering you here? One exile to another, this life is a living hell. Nowhere to go, nothing worth doing, an endless sea of shit: that's where this road leads. Don't think you'll escape it."

"I gave up those pretensions some time ago," Edward said quietly, his eyes fixed on Johan's. "And I think I see it now. I was to save his life, and in return he'd save mine. I took it literally. Only he meant more than that, didn't he?" No answer came. "We're to help with the revolt, in his eyes? And we're to do it in his name. A life _and_ a future, and a place to be. That is what he asks, and that is what he offers."

"It is," Johan said. "You and him, and the rest of us, can carve out a place here, if nowhere else. And there _is _nowhere else." He gestured at the high-ceiling room, the first flakes of snow collecting on the windows above. "I look at you, and when I saw Anya again . . . Lieutenant General Liebert: the man lives in a cage. You think he doesn't _envy _you? Tell me you haven't breathed the free air here, and tell me you haven't grown fond of it. There's none of it left for him, and when this city falls where will you go then?"

"And it shall fall," Edward said softly. "There's no question of that. And Polostin shall fall in the south, whether it takes one year or five. A short lived respite, quickly broken when the trains turn north again. What of your free air then?"

Johan just shrugged. "He believes it can work. He has not told me how it will work. Your assistance is the key to it all, in his eyes. He can rattle the bars of his cage; you seem to have found a way out of yours. But this Harper must be killed—that he insists on." A faint smile broke through his indifference. "Nationalism leaves its scars, you see."

"Why does he still hide, I wonder?" Another raised eyebrow came from Johan, and Edward let out a short breath, suddenly quite tired. "Yes, he must die. I don't contest that. I can uphold my end. Can you? Liebert will prolong the civil war to burn out both sides, I know all too well. Curious as it is, I don't believe the woman standing behind him will intervene. The reasons differ, but the results . . ." He turned aside, looking through the crowd for something, anything, and seeing nothing. "It's a fine strategy, no doubt. Why fight the inevitable when we can follow its current to a place of our choosing? Only I'm not convinced, because for all that one immovable force still stands in the way. His partner in power: First Secretary Mirzin."

"Perhaps not for much longer," Johan said mildly. "But who can say? One delusion among thousands, only born in the mind of a lieutenant general and not the likes of us. Believe him or don't, help him or don't: it's your choice." He waved at the crowds with barely concealed contempt. "We all have to find our own way. There's no shame in that."

"And if I told you that Liebert's delusion and mine might still be one and the same?"

"Then the lieutenant general would be waiting for you tonight at northern command."

II

The afternoon and much of the evening was spent in preparation. This, if absolutely nothing else, held true for every last faction concealed within that city. The air felt alive, freezing as it was, the clouds grew heavier and parted again without warning, and any and all pretentions to ordinariness were abandoned. The moment their impromptu meeting was finished, Provost Marshal Johan was swept away by his duties, and Edward informed the others of whatever it was he'd learned.

And then came the time to wait. Ahead of the others went Kesler, who insisted no such appearance at northern command could be made by anyone without extraordinarily caution. Though it was true that these audiences weren't so infrequent. Officially this region was governed by the military, or rather the military and civil services were one and the same, and so it was in that sense that the state apparatus naturally belonged to the state military.

Jean Liebert and his team, such as it was, had made a great deal of effort to allay the effects of this over the years since his initial betrayal had landed him governorship. Outrageous and ostentatious shows of community goodwill, lively speeches, a terribly risky open-door policy at northern command, a carefully maintained persona that wafted dissent, and so on. That was his strategy.

And so on the brink of civil war, a nationalist uprising, murder and death and destruction all around, nobody was too surprised to hear he was up to his old tricks again. As far as Edward was concerned it would be next to impossible to target the fortress itself in any meaningful way, the three-storey maze of sprawling stone corridors and auditoriums that it was. The aftermath would be the time to strike. That, however, was someone else's problem, because tactics were not and would never be his area of expertise.

Contemplation, however, was. Perhaps it was overly flippant, but after having spent the better part of a year living in a wide variety of slums, flophouses, ruins, and places so pitiful that they hadn't earned the right to any of those titles Edward considered himself a connoisseur of filth. It would be remarkably easy to wave this dreary place away as a complete write-off, exactly as he had done on that first peculiar train ride. Certainly the city itself made no attempt to dissuade this assessment. Neither did its inhabitants, half of whom took a sort of perverse pride in the sheer misery of their existence; the other half tended to be refugees from the south. There was a marvellous sense of irony about that, whether anybody admitted it or not, and of course they didn't. Nothing was ever admitted.

Dubbed North City by the invading force, dehumanising as could be, the locals had taken to reacting violently to anyone else who dared use its proper name. This in itself became a way to identify and reinforce the divide. Nonetheless, among all it became a habit to tell truly outrageous stories of poverty and despair, all in surprisingly good humour. Immiseration became a contest, and a way of superseding competition and finding common ground hidden beneath.

More to the point, the old apartment complex they'd acquired, whatever that meant, qualified for the titles of slum, flophouse, ruin, and more besides. This was all for the best. Had they instead arrived only to find luxury suites with a nameplate each it would surely have induced mass suicide after the first week. This was a charming place, hastily repaired, the centre for a small network of Alvernian refugees, for the most part. Nobody was turned away, as such, and on that evening it was especially active. Andrea Kesler ran the place with unparalleled efficiency; an obsession with order had its perks, not the least of which was maintaining her own sanity.

"We'll keep a watch on each entrance and the three closest stations," the administrator in question stated, pointing at each location on a yellowed map. "That in addition to here and every road between. It won't be easy, but is it possible?"

Kesler's question was addressed to several of her closest associates from Merestan as well as Lyra and her old friends from the garrison. Ostensibly also to Edward, who was lounging in a wooden chair near a fourth-floor window, far away enough to convey distance but not complete disinterest. Leaning on the wall next to him was Anya, who seemed more interested in cutting her fingernails than the tedious list of security details.

And the question was answered in the affirmative. Lyra's team had done this sort of thing on a daily basis, relatively few though they were, and considered it a matter of professional pride. Unintuitive though it was, personal security was not as a dire a problem as it may have seemed. The enormous state apparatus faded away when its chief of staff was a personal friend, and nobody else had managed to find or contact them as of yet. Random acts of violence motivated by nationalist sentiment or desperation often appeared the major threat here.

It was a difficult prospect at the best of times. The steppes separating the north and the west were enormous, mostly barren, and contact through any other means was unreliable. There were moments however, that day one of many, when this veil seemed to be pulled aside and revealed for the mockery it was. Someone was aware, someone was watching. Everyone had their part to play a while longer, and so they did exactly that. What a tiresome thought.

"Tell me something, would you?" Edward asked quietly, looking up at Anya. "When we first met you told me a tall man with a northern accent and rather pretty grey eyes, was it, had asked you about me. Do you recall?"

Mildly surprised, Anya stared down at him curiously. There were times when intrusive thoughts forced their way into the mind, and that was one of them. With the slightest motion she could have cut his throat, Edward thought to himself, feeling the urge to laugh. No such motion occurred to her, evidently.

"Is that so surprising?" Anya asked, examining her hand in the faint light of the window.

"Not in the slightest," Edward said, "only he never did ask you that, did he?"

"No, he didn't," she said, a slight grin growing wider with each second. "How'd you guess?"

"At the time I didn't. Only today, after seeing the provost marshal again, I realised if he'd ever appeared in that office he'd have killed you both without a second thought."

"Or we'd have killed him," Anya said, slipping the blade into a pocket. "I'd say we could've done it, me and Johan, what do you think?"

"There's a distinct chance, I have to agree," Edward said softly. "Liebert gave you a photograph, I presume? Or did you meet before the two of you fled here? That must be it—how could it be otherwise? Defend two square kilometres, was it?"

"That was it," Anya agreed cheerfully, and loudly enough to attract a few contemptuous looks from those busy with actual business. "He and that guy they call the first secretary brought us down to some ugly little street. He picked us especially. We had to guard some hole in the ground while he went down there with this big cylinder thing, happiest guy I'd ever seen."

"And when he came back up?" Edward asked, nearly in a whisper.

"I'm not sure he ever did," Anya said mildly. "He just walked right past us without a word, only the cylinder was gone and he had a shotgun instead. His eyes were empty, you know? Like he could see something we couldn't, and it was _nothing. _I kept trying to get him to talk, but Johan pulled me away, told me we had to run, pretend we'd seen nothing. Only I didn't . . . I sort of get carried away, and I ran back and he was still there." Lost in recollection, she seemed to waver between fascination and loathing. "He just started shaking, even in the dark I could see . . . and he pulled the shotgun up and stuck it under his chin. I was so sure . . ."

"He didn't, of course," Edward said pensively. "Hence this ugly project we have now. Go on."

"Well, before he could the other guy, the short one, came back. He stared him down and told him to _stop that_, quiet as could be, and then he swept forward and pulled the gun away. I don't know which of them was scarier then. Only he saw me too, and Johan behind me. I've never seen Johan angry in my life, or afraid either, but that night . . . We told Andrey, and he told Kosra, and he went to Liebert, and . . ."

"And here you are," Edward finished. "Why didn't you tell me that weeks before now? After what Liebert wants us to do, and the risk involved—"

"I thought you might hate me," Anya murmured, as if only to herself, her eyes darting over to Kesler and Lyra. "They say Kosra's dead, so I really don't have anywhere else to go. I couldn't mess this up. I know something bad happened on that night, and I won't lie: I enjoyed it. Seeing that kind of thing . . . doing it for myself . . . I know I shouldn't, I see how people look at me, but I like it. I've always liked it. How can you ever admit that?"

"Pain and pleasure," Edward said, still reclining in the same chair, "are not as dissimilar as we like to think. I'll take either before ennui. I'm not a sadist myself, or I don't think I am, but to condemn you would be hypocrisy beyond description. Perhaps I do understand, and even if I don't I won't belittle you for it. You are with me now, yes?"

Leaning over his chair then, Anya didn't look away for a moment. "If you're not a sadist yourself, I think you must be something quite worse." She smelled faintly of something that wasn't quite lavender. "And I can be whatever you like so long as you're not boring. You don't mind, then?" she asked quietly, nodding toward the others. "Keeping that story from them, I mean. Some of it, anyway."

"I can do that," Edward said, calm as he'd ever been. "And when Harper comes for us, or when we find him, you can be the one to pull the trigger. Handle it however you like, I'm beyond caring."

Her familiar grin back in place, Anya uprighted herself, entirely satisfied. They both were. And why not? As secrets went, hers was a simple one. Kesler had participated in what could be called genocide, had nearly killed herself for it. Natural inclinations, however uneasy, simply couldn't be helped. He knew that better than most. Reaching out a hand in solidarity at such a time was worth much than could be put to words. Why not indulge them? For Edward now admitted he was driven by no great passion, no singular goal, no pressing desire at all, and now he entertained friend and enemy alike not with indifference but with genuine interest. Something quite worse, indeed. Isolation had become the antithesis of existence, in his eyes. Any and all, let them be heard.

It would be preferable if Harper could restrain himself for long enough to receive the same treatment. But there was no question of it: it was better for all involved that he should die. And after him? Why not entertain Liebert a while longer? Support a revolt, cut off Merestan from the north, smash the Third Energy generators to pieces, murder Dmitri Mirzin, and perhaps force Eliza Anders from her fortress. Edward related to no-one more then. This was, after all, the exact life she'd led before the coup. Giving it all up for power she didn't want, veiled or not, had surely been an irrevocable mistake on her part. Why deny it? He enjoyed this life, and this decrepit place, all the more for the uncertainty, and all the more for the unyielding deception. Perhaps the choice had never been hers to make.

III

The genuine absurdity of the architecture favoured in the north deserved to be noted more often than it ever had been. Hallways without end, corridors as rooms, alcoves all over the place, windows placed in any number of unthinkable spots with a view more toward attracting curious patterns of light than, well, the actual view. It was astounding, it was frustrating, and it was more than a little admirable. Edward considered himself one of the few to bother with this sort of thing. Most Alvernian visitors to the north had more experience smashing these delightful places than admiring them, and he liked to ask the locals the history of each he saw. More often than not they didn't know. Occasionally they thought he was playing at some sort of cruel joke. This is where having friends like Kesler and Anya made itself useful.

And on that night, in an enormous auditorium filled to each wall with soldiers and military police and locals and refugees and men in blue, grey, black, everything in between, and perhaps even the odd indigo uniform too, this was what dominated his thoughts. And why not? The proceedings were delayed, Liebert had yet to show, and people were rightfully becoming quite frustrated.

"When did the military police first find themselves used as guards, assassins, all around thugs, and delivery men?" Kesler asked from the seat to the right. "This is not the military I commissioned into. Come to think of it, even the military I commissioned into wasn't quite the military I commissioned into." Sprawled out lazily, she had taken to critiquing everything and everyone, providing more than enough entertainment to justify the twenty minute trip across.

"I understand even if no-one else does," Edward said, giving her a knowing look. He wasn't quite sure he did, but what did that matter? "Institutional realities are so very depressing. If all we had in life was someone else's ambition and a steady wage, well, better any number of things."

"Sometimes you worry me," Lyra said from the seat to the left. "Better the rope is what you were thinking, am I right? What sort of a joke is that? You're too . . . flippant."

"And you're too perceptive. Of all the things I might've thought, you had to pick _the rope_?" Edward turned aside, hands outstretched in mock exasperation. "Well, you were right, but you really mustn't pay any attention to what I say. It'll get you nowhere."

"Better to keep paying attention to what he doesn't say," Kesler advised, all acidity fading away. She was at her kindest with Lyra. Everyone was, really, and no-one quite knew why. The woman was dangerously efficient at everything she set her mind to, and did it with the utmost politeness. Perhaps that was it. And Kesler pointed forward at the stage, glancing about as she did, no doubt looking for hidden snipers or something of the kind. "Either Liebert's spent the last few weeks at the gym or that isn't him."

And from behind came an excitable voice. All of them had raised their own voices just to be heard in the horrifyingly loud space; only Anya really fit in naturally. "This'll be what they call, the, ah, what's the word—"

"Prelude to the main event," Edward ventured, looking up at her much as before. His neck was beginning to ache.

"That's exactly it."

"Will you tell me the Borginian for famine now?"

"If you behave yourself. And later. I'm supposed to be watching the doors."

"I was about to mention that," Kesler murmured, heard by no-one.

Their experience was not a unique one. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation, and excitement, and many awful jokes had been told, frustratingly loud laughs had, lewd gestures made, and so on, all because a faint glimpse of hope had finally been sighted in a veritable sea of shit. Everyone was sure the civil war was on, so to speak, that the garrison was withdrawing, that these southern armies and the secret devils driving them would smash each other on the rocks and finally, finally_, _relief would come.

And then Provost Marshal Johan appeared. And he began to speak. And he confirmed many of the rumours, disappointingly stating no such six thousand men had died, that it had been a brigadier general and a respected diplomat, and—he searched the crowd for Anya at this—the foreign mercenary Kosra. Assassinated by Anton Royce's thugs, yes. Edward almost believed that, and so did Kesler from the way she looked at him. Though surely Royce wouldn't be as stupid as that, they both thought. The man was no fool, unlikeable or not. Behind Johan were four bland men in the back, not quite assistants and not quite guards.

The news of the massive implosion in the garrison, so to speak, was received with open cheers. The gloved fist of the military policeman would have to do in their stead, and nobody—Johan least of all—seriously expected that to work for long. Yet Johan was a surprisingly charismatic speaker. His dark and violent history made itself known without a word; people here could respect this, look at him almost as one of them if given the chance. Borginia, after all, had suffered the same fate. Everything looked masterfully done; Liebert's absence was soon forgotten, and this well-oiled machine seemed unstoppable. People shouted questions and they were answered, and Edward kept to his cooperative word and intervened not at all. What a show it was.

And then, of course, it happened. "Have you ever heard such a load of shit in all your life?" a woman called out, her clear voice piercing through the murmur of the crowd. "You think you're being subtle, don't you? Where's Liebert, then? He sold us all out and now he thinks he can buy us back?" Clarity turned to seething contempt, all the stronger for it. "He's too scared to even look at us, and for good reason. The man's sitting down there now in his gleaming white fortress with the rest of those traitors having a good laugh, no doubt about it. Fuck him—if he's not here that's the only answer we need. Drag him out or piss off; we've no interest in foreign lackeys."

Even from this distance the pained look on Johan's face was obvious. This was not his problem, he was surely thinking. Suppressing it all, he launched into an evidently pre-prepared rebuttal, point by point, occasionally glancing back at his dull entourage. And at this Edward took a closer look, standing up as he did. Could it be—? And he nearly forgot; far to the left, in the stands across, the defiant woman shouted a few more obscenities and then she saw him.

Of course. Who else could it have been? Long brown hair, gentle as could be, and the most singularly confident speaker any of them had seen in months. The very same woman from the food line offered Edward the most insolent smirk, ignored Johan's rebuttal entirely, and continued agitating, which she'd evidently been born to do. Kesler was up too and whispering into one of her friends' ears. The show had been smashed to pieces.

As before Edward looked at the speaker for a moment, nausea returning in full. Images of a warehouse, a solemn friend, a murdered woman, flooded his mind. It had to be coincidental, surely the resemblance, uncanny as it was, was nothing more. Kesler's expression turned sour too and he heard her whisper something else. "You were sure?" Seizing his wrist, she forced him to look at her. "I never did see . . . I wasn't there to confirm—"

Edward pulled his wrist back, but didn't look away. "She was dead," he said, as if it meant nothing. He glanced down to Lyra, who seemed to understand, nodding slightly. "Within minutes she was dead. And she didn't have this temperament, not by a—"

"Coincidences are _rare_, Edward. Whose idea of a sick joke is this?"

"Take one guess," Edward said. "I've had more than I can stand of waiting. Handle things here, would you? I'm going to find Liebert myself. Oh, he's here, you can bet my life on that if you like." Anya had seen the arguing, had returned, reluctant to intrude, and he pointed at her with one finger. "You're with me. We're off to see Jean, who's backstage right now." Two of Johan's encourage had indeed slipped away. Just a coincidence.

And Anya hesitated. That was so unlike her that he stopped for a moment. "I'm not sure I'll be much use with him," she said quietly. "I can, only I—"

"It's alright," Lyra said, the last still seated. "I understand. I can go instead."

They left without another glance back. Edward could feel the way their eyes burned into his back, preferred not to see for himself. A genuine burst of contempt, of loathing, was rarer than coincidence, and it had to be expressed.

Edward as ever was unarmed, and this time so was Lyra; weapons simply weren't allowed inside the command centres. It made little difference. Two guards stood in the way, but not for long. They'd been ordered not to bother.

Inside the dingy grey preparatory area behind the stage, one that looked as though it had originally been built for a very different purpose, sat one of the four men who'd served as Johan's entourage at a small wooden desk. What looked to be an escape tunnel started on the other end on the room, and no guards followed them in. Neither Edward nor Lyra believed it, both turning back, and there they saw the second man in his unassuming clothes.

"Would you mind giving us some privacy?" Jean Liebert asked softly, looking between Lyra and the decoy sitting in the seat.

They did. Lyra requested to be shown the tunnel, a rather admirable move on her part, and Liebert simply couldn't be bothered protesting.

Edward took the empty seat, leaving the older man with the bad knee to stand. "So it's to be war, Lieutenant General?" he asked, scrapping his boot over the stone floor.

Even from there they could hear and feel the sheer noise above. It shook the dust from the ceiling, a shapeless cry of energy and anguish, all meaning fading into stone well before it reached the two weary men in that dark and filthy place.

"That was never in question, and don't call me that," Liebert said, softer still. "Who among us wanted it, and who did not? All our labours, for and against, and you'd be surprised how little difference it made." He trailed off, not at all the exuberant man he so often appeared. "Or perhaps not."

"No, perhaps not," Edward said quietly. "How did it happen?"

"How does it ever happen?" Liebert asked. "What force could ever compel thousands to eagerly march to their deaths?" He stopped by the desk and gently picked up a document. "I signed the order, and it was done. Is that it? I was _told _it had to happen, several important personages desired it, and so it was done. No, we're beyond that, you and I both. Several more important figures, as deemed by the paperwork, died on a diplomatic mission. Then the order signed itself. Is that it?" His voice was barely distinguishable from the muffled roar of the crowd. No, that was not it, and Liebert tore the document in half in a frenzied motion, then again. Not satisfied, he turned back with a look of contempt and upended the entire desk, scattering official papers everywhere.

Edward could do little but smile. "But it happened, nonetheless."

"We live in the same world as ever, Edward. Reach for the sun if you must, but don't dare to try if you aren't sure of your strength. Is there anything more tiresome than a failed revolution? Reaction, swift and brutal, the old world seizing back all that was taken and more besides. Speak freely. We're in for decades of this, you know."

"You and I were not revolutionaries, Jean," Edward said, unwilling to raise his voice above that low murmur. "You and I, in a certain light, crushed any hope of revolution. It would be distasteful to complain now."

"And you, my good friend," Liebert said, staring down at his documents, "are not the man leading the counterrevolution. I am not a believer, you know, not one for faith and the otherworld—are you?" Edward shook his head. "I thought not. Even so, I almost begin to think it must be otherwise. For a man such as me, sordid and stained, to be given everything he asked for and more, and for it to come to this . . ." He laughed then, and it still sounded unnatural. "Well, let's forget that. I feel at home with you, you know. You and the devil herself, of course, who stares into my eyes and sees it all, laughing, as if she were asking: 'Jean, how did you not _know?_'"

"It is an apt description of the woman I recall," Edward said, finding himself calmer than ever. "But it happened, nonetheless, and so let us revel in the filth and squalor. You're all digging your own graves, whether you like it or not, and most of you do. Her view, yes?"

Jean sat on the bare floor, all rank pushed aside. "An apt description of you too, in my eyes."

Edward looked down in surprise. "A devil, you mean? And I thought we were good friends."

"A devil has naught but friends," Jean said, smiling with those dead brown eyes. "And I'm afraid I have none myself."

"No, perhaps not," Edward said again, still looking down at him. "And a world of enemies, it seems to me. Your plans sour as you sit here in the dark. They chose rhetoric tonight. I doubt you'll be as fortunate a second time." He leaned forward in the chair. "There is a way out, surely? Abandon this place, join with First Secretary Mirzin, conclude the war as best you can, let the devil above kill herself, and enjoy life in the new Alvernia. History would love you."

"And it would love you no less, were you at my side," Jean said, laughing again. "Come, let us be monsters together—is that it? I haven't the stomach for it, not anymore, and neither have you. I shall have a future here or nowhere, not at the head of a client state."

"Has this been your aim all along? From the very first betrayal?"

"I could say yes and I think you would believe me. In truth I did it because the alternative was literal suicide, and because it was so very easy. Only now, in my aging years, has the rationale caught up with me. And my pursuer too."

"I shall have Harper killed if you tell me where to find him," Edward said softly. "It is essential, I know. If there is a revolt and he's standing behind it . . ."

"We should be in some trouble, and my people would find themselves in chains again before the year was out. Mr Mirzin keeps a close eye on this, and everything else. Who ever saw the budding authoritarian in that charming young man? Of our number he is the only one who wants to see your new Alvernia."

"Was it he who arranged this diplomatic crisis?"

"Not as deliberately as you might think," Jean said. "He strongly suspected I had ordered these southern raids for ulterior motives, which I had, and arranged for his own pawns to, well, crash the party. Brigadier Razin of the ceremonial guard, a recent promotion; my good friend Kosra; that pitiful creature Morrent; Anton Royce's lover and about five hundred men, as I hear it; and an agent my sneaky old colleague Mikhail Levin sent to spoil the fun: they held a clandestine meeting in some nowhere town on that exact night. I had intended for the Borginians to contact the last of this eclectic bunch, though I think Kosra had his own ends in mind."

This barrage of names was momentarily disorienting. Fortunately Liebert didn't bother waiting for a response. "As you might expect, it ended in tears. The only witness of note, the most miserable girl you'll ever meet—perhaps the most beautiful too, I'll admit among friends—tells a rather ghastly story. It began with—"

"Is there any reason in the world for me to care how it began?" Edward asked. "How does it end?"

"With a lot of dead officials, to be blunt," Jean said. "Neither myself nor Mr Mirzin have much to cheer about, and each rightly blames the other. Brigadier Razin, a terrible racist—you should hear the things she said to me—shot the already injured Kosra, according to our witness. Some southern official murdered Morrent in a fit of rage, Merestan is filled with angry Borginians, a few rounds of artillery passed the border, and—" He shrugged helplessly. "Plans are a complete waste of time, in short. I had hoped to find some way to delay this dreadful series of events. Instead it seems I hurried it all along."

"Did I mishear you? A lot of hearsay, one shady witness, and where's the proof?"

"Dead or captured, what does it matter? They have not returned." Jean waved it all off as irrelevant. "And as for Razin, better she doesn't. Eliza is many things, most of them quite languid. Anger was a new reaction from her, you understand. Oh, Mr Mirzin and I found common ground quickly enough when she heard the news, I can tell you now."

"We all must live with some disappointment," Edward said slowly. "You can be indifferent, you can be dead, but you can't live the way she does and think yourself immune. That _would _be arrogant." Again he saw those dead brown eyes fixed in the dark. "I understand you're prone to verbosity, Jean, but that was a long and rather depressing story that ultimately went nowhere. Is futility the message you're conveying?"

They heard voices echoing down the tunnel. "Doing a favour for a friend, naturally," Jean said, his eyes darting over to the tunnel. "You asked me once on one of our calls to keep an eye out for a certain someone, you recall? You may not have been entirely sober at the time—I know I wasn't. I'm also sure you didn't expect me to follow through. Let me tell me you now: I _always _follow through."

"Is this part of your story, you mean?" Edward asked, suddenly quite still.

"Naturally," Jean said cheerfully, feigned or not. "The capable officer my old friend Levin sent was none other than your old friend, the charming redhead with the fake name. I'm sure of that. Some crafty work on her part, the way I hear it. It's astounding how people can get spread all over the place in times like these, don't you think? Take my poor friend up there, Johan, how on earth did he end up here? I doubt even he knows."

"But here he is, nonetheless," Edward said, looking past his friend entirely. "That much we can't deny."

"Is there something wrong?" Jean asked mildly. "I listened to the testimony personally at some difficulty, you know—even a thank you would suffice."

"Well," Edward said softly, "we all really must live with some disappointment."

The proceedings above were beginning to sound ever more volatile, though of all present only Liebert himself seemed disinterested. Another hour left on the programme, and there was not another hour of speech left in those two men. Both felt exhausted, in truth, neither quite able to break the spell. It was only when their two allies approached the tunnel's entrance again that Jean looked back at Edward.

"You are with me on this? For an independent north, a fractured Alvernia, and the two of us to be _free_? The choice is entirely yours; I can book you a train anywhere you like, or how about a ship? Say the word, and let it be done." Attempting to stand, his knee almost gave out under him.

Edward offered him a hand up. "I am with you on this, for all that's worth. Where else would you have me go?"

"To a friend's side, perhaps," Jean said, a glimmer of amusement in his eye.

"I have nothing but friends," Edward said. "Why not indulge the one standing in front of me? One or another, it makes remarkably little difference."

They had arrived. At first glance it became immediately obvious that in perhaps half an hour Lyra had managed to befriend the stern soldier at her side, much as he tried to hide it. The tunnel ran all the way outside, she confirmed wordlessly, and when she verbally suggested they go back upstairs Edward found his blood ran cold, the idea too distasteful to consider.

"Use the tunnel if you must," Liebert said cheerfully, his public persona back in place. "Only do be careful. I expect I'll be in the south for some time; we may not meet in weeks, if not months. I have your word the _local _problem will be handled?" A wordless nod was the only answer. "And will you tell me which island your second generator was built on?"

"The very day I hear Dmitri Mirzin is dead."

The first breath of fresh air on the other end of that cavernous complex came as more of a relief than could ever be expressed, if only for one of them. Lyra had not wanted to take this route. She had also known not to bother protesting, lest she be told to go upstairs alone. Yes, they were alone, yes they were unarmed; no Edward did not particularly care.

And that was the trouble. Jean Liebert had overturned a desk before his rage was quelled, and all Edward could feel was the ever-growing void within himself. What did it matter, one way or another? There was no real frustration, nor pity, nor amusement, not urgency, nor much else either. And yet that seemed somehow sort of the reality, a flawed assessment. Even Eliza had been disgusted to hear of Kosra's death at the hands of some bigoted officer, if that was indeed what had happened. The clouds shifted above, the stars gleaming through, and here they were at the pivotal moment. Not for the first time, either.

"Is it exactly as it should be?" Lyra asked quietly, slowing to a stop. "Whatever he said to you, whatever we're doing now . . . if you say it is, I don't think I'll believe you. Only I don't know where to go instead. If not here, then where?"

No response came, and they continued in silence. Darkened and wet, the streets passed one by one, bitter cold seeping into their bones, and finally it came to pass, as on some level Edward had known was inevitable. Ahead of them was a single silhouette. Follow Lyra's lead, all instinct and reason said, wait for Kesler's watchmen, and it looked like Lyra's lead would be toward a hasty exit. Instead he stepped forward, and she followed.

"I had wondered about you," Edward called out, each step slower than the last. "The face, the hair, the way you move . . . so much like her, and now I wonder: was it for my benefit, or his? A vile game either way, it seems to me."

"What are you talking about?" the northern woman asked, that same clear voice cutting through the night air. That same insolent smirk was fixed in place, faltering slightly at his words. She was still unarmed, it seemed, from the show at northern command.

"You misunderstand," Edward said. "I wasn't talking to you at all." And for the second time that night he glanced over his shoulder to find a second figure made manifest before his eyes, and Lyra at his back, now considerably less comfortable.

"It's been some time, Edward," Harper said, watching with a familiar, empty smile. He too was unarmed. "And you must be this _Lyra_ I've heard so much about. Pleasure to meet you, it really is." Lyra couldn't even find the words, and Edward had never seen her so close to panic, especially as Harper began that same slow walk over the half-frozen road, his accomplice watching silently on the other side.

"There's no need for alarm," Harper said mildly. "All I'm after is a chat with an old friend." He turned those piercing grey eyes on Edward, who met them with calm disinterest. "Edward and I _are_ old friends, are we not?"

"What else?" Edward asked softly. "Nothing but the very best."


	40. Chapter 40

Indifference crept in as though it were a disease. Behind any number of spontaneous divergences from convention could be found this same base of stone which quietly endured any and all turmoil, seamless and unbroken, in time coming to resemble the glassy surface of a forgotten lake, unnoticed and undisturbed. Clarity was one advantage. An eye for hypocrisy another. People and society, individual and collective, conviction and cynicism: where did the sacred _it_ come from, and where was _it_ going? The faithful rarely had the answers. But to ask for the truth presumed the existence of truth at all. There was no need for righteous judgment here. No need for morality and friends. The abstract had had its day—let it be thrown aside. Only the weary sight of a dismal fraud remained beneath, pitiful and alone, feebly grasping for significance that had never existed and never would.

This was the sight which met Edward Kirk on that particular winter night, the stone of northern command looming behind and the stars gleaming above. Not the only sight. To one side was someone remarkably similar. No outrageous pretensions could be seen in Lyra's eyes, no false claims to certainty. Fear and caution, yes. A dismal fraud Harper may have been, but an inconsistent one at the best of times. And behind the fear lay inexplicable reassurance too. It was a shared sentiment. Why face the indifferent world alone?

Neither, it seemed, was the violent murderer watching silently on one side of that frozen road alone. But nothing was ever as it seemed. As it was here, Edward saw no need to grasp in the dark for a deeper reality than the dreary one he and Lyra both saw. On the other side waited the last of the four, though it felt as if she were watching from a much lengthier distance. The vision this charismatic and evidently quite passionate dissident had of her new friend was as illusory as could be. Admiration, expectation, hope, and all the rest. Perhaps the vision Harper had of her, Edward preferred to think, was anything but what it appeared. Either way: the two of them were entirely alone.

And they would soon be forced to admit it. "You're rather quiet, aren't you?" Edward asked. "Go ahead. Speak. I would have preferred it had you crawled down into that hole in the earth and stayed there. But this is your moment, not mine."

"And I intend to savour it," Harper said softly. "We wait years down in the dark, as you say, before a moment such as ours can be arranged. Why hurry it along?"

"Do you think it'll just be the four of us for long?" Lyra asked. All discomfort had already been buried far out of sight. "You can wait, if you like. We don't mind."

"Don't think you're the only one with backup," the northern woman shot back, with even less hesitation. "This is our home, not yours."

"Is that true?" Edward asked quietly, looking only at Harper. "Is _this_ your home?"

"Not anymore, no," Harper said. That blank smile hadn't shifted even once. "Not while you and your parasitic friends, above and below, torment this good city. Associating with the likes of Jean Liebert is a new low even for you. Wasn't one extermination enough, Edward?"

"A lie," Edward said, approaching slowly. "And an obvious one. I haven't the patience for this game of accusations. I might've bothered had I thought you anything more than a distraction. Does Eliza pull your strings now, or has she left that tedious task to Dmitri? For all her faults the woman has an impeccable eye for spotting superfluous men. Sent up here to die quietly, I'd say myself."

The empty smile gave way, if only for an instant. "And you always did prefer to hear yourself speak. Tell me, then. You're not superfluous, no, you think too highly of yourself for that. What's the grand plan this time? You had one in mind, last we met."

"You'd rather I had another now, wouldn't you? But the rest of us gave that rubbish up some time ago—learned the lesson, you might say—and you wonder why you've been thrown aside? You've really taken this much too far. It's distasteful."

Harper's smile had already resumed its position. "Is this where you righteously explain that all I can ever do is destroy?"

Edward returned it. "You can't even do that. Destroy the military, did you?" He inhaled quite sharply, looking around in mock surprise. "And the _state_? If you're not a liar you're just incompetent. But it served your old friend Eliza's aims nicely, didn't it?" He looked at the increasingly uncomfortable northern woman. "Didn't he tell you? Harper's been sitting up in that gleaming white fortress himself, though I doubt there's been much laughter. None that wasn't directed at him, that is."

"Did you bring me here just to listen to this?" that woman said, turning to Harper with increasingly obvious displeasure. "You said we had to—"

"Listen to this swindler if you like," Edward said, "but first have him tell you what happened to your predecessor. Predecessors." There was too much to say, too many insults to offer. The risk was irrelevant, let them all fall into a rage, for everything but contempt was forgotten. "Go on. Don't crawl into the dark uninformed. His interest in _you_ of all the veteran dissenters here was only business, I presume? Though they always tell me I presume too much." He turned back to Lyra. "And is that _really _a coincidence, do you think? The resemblance is uncanny."

"It's sort of a sicko thing, isn't it?" Lyra said mildly, both hands in her jacket pockets. Not much longer to wait for backup, surely, she conveyed wordlessly. "If he picked her especially, I mean. Who would do something like that?"

And the dissenter in question pushed past Harper, who began to look far too much like he was enjoying this. That muted Edward's satisfaction considerably. "I know exactly what happened to the rest," she said, oblivious to all of it. "Camps, prisons, firing squads, torture: you have the nerve to lecture us, when one of the few survivors from the first—"

"That creature survived by becoming a favoured pet of the officer who arranged the camps, prisons, firing squads, and tortures," Edward said flatly. "No judgments, of course—who wouldn't have done the same? But to escape and then to _go back_?"

"That's exactly it," she said. "He came back. And this time we can push the army out and keep them out. You think we didn't know about you? I saw you on the first night with Liebert. We _let _you stay. That can still change." Certainty turned to a sort of disgust. "And what gives you the right? Years of _this_, this humiliating life we have to live, and you'd have us do nothing." And much as before, she closed in, almost in a whisper. "Or would you like to save us? Please, Mr Southerner, we need your _help_, we just can't do it alone."

"I'm not so arrogant as to think I could do that," Edward said. "It's your home, as you say. Not mine. Not his either." He took a step back, finding Lyra again at his side. "If you put your faith in anyone else as some saviour, if you expect to be saved, and you do, you'll rot here for a lifetime. Force us out if you like, but you can be sure: if _he _is whispering orders into your ear you'll find a very unpleasant reality waiting on other side of this delusion."

"Hypocrisy, Edward," Harper said softly. "One _leader _to another, yes? You call me a swindler when you've collected all the refuse one city could contain and dragged it here with you. Don't think I've forgotten Kesler, nor your Borginian friends." His smile became rather twisted. "Or our other friend, for that matter."

"A mistake, rather," Edward said. "Who mentioned _leaders—_there's no need for that rubbish either. You know you've disappointed me. There was a time when your dreams were of a less pitiable pallor."

"What fevered nights you must have endured to so freely discern my dreams. You said it yourself, Edward—you presume too much."

"Then you no longer mind? All the old grievances are there, you're as sociopathic as ever, only the motive . . ."

"There is no motive," Harper said quietly. "Night gives way soon enough, and what dream can survive the morning light? Brilliant blue in the east to outshine the sun itself." And inexplicably he laughed. "A fine shade for the west too, wouldn't you say? I may have the chance again, should the day come. And it will."

"Tell me why," Lyra asked, staring at him with an expression Edward had never seen before.

Again Harper laughed, as if he couldn't help himself. "Why _not? _The lot of you have done well enough up here, in your own way. Even Eliza isn't truly malicious, though she told me _you _were a murderous schemer. Is that true?" Lyra looked hurt even at the suggestion. "No, I suppose not. In her eyes you pull the veil aside, reveal the horror beneath, and if all goes well . . . well, everything comes to a _stop_. Or we all collectively decide to die. _That, _to her, would be a kindness. I've no interest in kindness. You may be innocent, Lyra, but why should that matter? All the more reason to pay you a quiet visit. How about on one of your three in the morning walks?"

At this his companion looked away from Edward, away from the now visibly disturbed Lyra, and back to her saviour with something unreadable in her eyes. This was a clear diversion from the script, from whatever he'd told her they were to do. And he didn't care, not in the slightest.

"Malice, then, is your interest," Edward finished.

"I have a talent for it, you might say," Harper said, quieter still. "And I may even enjoy it. Pain is a more refined pleasure than pleasure itself, it seems to me. So I came here to warn you. When the tension boils over, as it already has, we may find one another in northern command. You promised Jean you'd dispose of me, I know—I don't fault you for it—and so I'm at a disadvantage. I was expressly forbidden to kill you, you see. Not that I would've."

"Forbidden by whom?" his companion asked quietly. And she took a step back, too.

Harper ignored her entirely, his smile even wider. "You'd rather pretend it never happened, wouldn't you? None of it. People and machinery both. Or that you just don't care. No, that's not pretence. But it's all still there, Edward. Recall a certain island, would you? Your life's work and those who _remembe_r are waiting down in the dark while you and your new friends play at your little union of egoists up here in the snow. And we've been busy."

There was a growing level of noise coming from the command centre behind. The implications were lost on none of them. "I understand someone activated the biological weapons concealed under Ibis Island," Edward said, as if it didn't mean much either way. Perhaps it didn't. "That would make investigation rather difficult."

"It would, had it happened at all," Harper said. "Oh, it's very convincing. That brute Kosra paid them a visit at Eliza's request, the garrison disappeared, and nobody's been there since. Only there's no reason to believe that ever happened. Very soon people will go looking. This is guaranteed. Both of them, I assure you, you'd like to see dead even more than me. Quite a distinction, yes?"

"What kind of a fool do you take me for?" Edward asked softly.

"The kind who would appreciate that Dmitri Mirzin and Anton Royce both will soon discover that there was no biological attack, and that they and their entourages will make a simultaneous move for that island. I have it on good authority: Dmitri _will _butcher every last one of them, and he will do it properly. No half-measures from that psychopath, you understand."

Lyra had the only answer needed here. "No. We're not foolish, we're not stupid, and we're not going."

Again Harper laughed, his hands outstretched. "Your old friend Regina is. Remember her, Edward? I let her go. Really, I did." He waited for a response that didn't come, that twisted smile still in place. "She'll be leading half of them there, I understand. Everyone who knows just a little too much will _vanish_. Everyone except you, that is. You're expected to be preoccupied here. Eliza has a special plan for you, and Dmitri still listens to every word she says. He's put you well out of mind."

"This has gone far enough," the northern woman said abruptly. "What he said was true, wasn't it? Those names . . . if you don't have an explanation—"

"I meant what I said," Harper said. "One man alone, as I am, is hardly a threat here. Edward's going to help too, isn't he?"

"That was our intention, you might say," Edward said, calmer as Harper grew more agitated. He looked closely at this dissident who had stumbled into something perverse. "And Liebert's, you should know. He's arranging things so there will be little armed resistance. Believe me or don't, it's your choice. Believe _him _or don't. That's your choice too."

"I despise you, Edward," Harper said abruptly, all humour vanishing. "Cold and dead inside, but never quite contemptible enough. I can't justify it, you know?" He glanced around, finding no-one who did know. "Murdering you. Like _her. _There's too much left for you both to do." Again he came closer, and again Lyra moved in too. "Here's the deal. You made one with Liebert—why not me? I want to see Dmitri's battered corpse before I'm through. So do you. Alone we can't get to him, not for a second. So how about we make it happen, you and me, just like old times?"

"I know what you'll say. You'll tell us the day they're to reach the island, no doubt at the last second, you'll now say we're to avoid each other until the uprising succeeds, and once it's through—" At this Edward hesitated, though not from uncertainty. "But even if I agree? I do intend to keep my _deal _with Liebert." He found himself smiling faintly. "You see, I don't need to justify it. Not anymore."

"I'd have it no other way," Harper said softly. He turned to his companion, who again took a step back. "You see? The last variable accounted for, as promised."

"I don't trust you," she said, looking first at Harper and then Edward. "Or you. You're onboard? Fine. Expect to be watched closely—if you, _any _of you, make any sudden moves without clearing it with us—"

The first of those drifting away from northern command were arriving. That it had taken this long seemed miraculous enough. "You should go," Edward said. "Both of you."

His smile returning, one Edward began to wish could be carved off at knifepoint, Harper took a step forward instead. "It really is a coincidence, Edward," he said. "Her face, her hair. _I swear_. You trust me, don't you? Old friends that we are." The barely restrained mania hidden behind the smile, perverse and scattered, came back to the forefront. "All that's sordid and vile: my domain, isn't it? Regina thought so too. Oh, I let her go—eventually. A quick bullet to the head was Dmitri's plan, but we had our fun, me and her. Go ask for yourself; I hear she's quite comfortable back in blue."

"What would you like me to say?" Edward asked. "One story or another. One delusion or another. The reality I can see is the only one worth mentioning, and what a pitiable reality it is." He looked at the dissident in question. "Some of us do mean what we say. You should go. This is the last chance you'll get. And please: you do have a name?"

"Not for you, no. We will meet again, and soon."

"I've heard that before. Very well, then. Go. We'll be waiting. But for you—not him."

Not for the first time Lyra disagreed completely and chose not to argue. Not the time or place, perhaps. They were out of time. At the end of the street four figures were approaching rather quickly, and they made no attempt to disguise their interest in this impromptu meeting.

"I knew you'd see _reason_," Harper said, even the pretence of warmth having slipped away. "Tell Andrea I've been thinking about her, would you? And you, Lyra. How amiable you are. Until next time then, Edward." Both turned back, as expected. Both ran, as expected.

"No," Edward said to himself. "This time was the last." His unseeing stare remained fixed on their path until well after both had vanished into the dim winter night.

"Stand down," Lyra said to the four new arrivals, exasperated though she was. All four were heavily armed and terribly confused. Silently she stared at Edward with reproach, receiving nothing more than an empty smile in return. "It's done. Don't follow them."

II

The day illusion finally breathed its last would be the first worth remembering. Exertion or ennui: Edward was familiar with both, and he vastly preferred the former. It was curious, he thought, that after that evening this was still what dominated his thoughts. Neither he nor Lyra spoke often on the journey back to their makeshift base of operations. She was more unnerved than he was; to him it seemed condescending to try and allay her fears unprompted, so he didn't. They were justified. Her frustration was justified. And with him, he knew all too well. Perhaps that was why this line of thought refused to abate. He thought he should have felt more, should have done more. Should have cared more.

Harper was here, of course, and so was Liebert, of course, and each had made their approaches, each made their requests. Events in the south had come to their inevitable head: the army was on the march, more than one notable personage had suffered a gruesome end, and the lines on their new maps would shift back and forth by the day. Civil war began to seem such a tiresome prospect. The future they had grasped had revealed itself as a contradiction of autonomy and actuality both, and things progressed as they would nonetheless. Revelation in itself wasn't worth much.

Each insult, each snide comment, had slipped away unnoticed. Apathy was a fine response to Harper. Only one gibe remained, buried deep into his skull. That he had _wanted _to forget. People and machinery alike. It had gone sour, so let it be swept under the rug. There was something to that.

Was it his responsibility? More to the point, did he care? Responsibility from without was just one more illusion. Reconciling his memories with the reality of the information at hand became an even murkier dilemma. Taken from powerlessness and seclusion, at the head of the remnants of the Alvernian state apparatus, Mirzin had found his place in the world. Found it on the back of Edward's own work. The stories of one deadly conspiracy after another refused to be cast off so easily. Dmitri Mirzin had to go. That much seemed undeniable.

Ambushing him on Ibis Island, unexpected and unwelcomed, would be the way to do it. If the Borginian security systems were intact any number of surprises could be arranged. Harper was not wrong there. Neither, Edward hated to admit, did he think this particular scheme was the obvious trap it appeared. Once Mirzin was dead there would be time enough for that. Not before. The pathetic wreck who had suggested this lacked the ability or inclination for anything else. Predictable, in his own way. And he would never get the chance.

The day the date was revealed: that would be Harper's last. Discarded as with any piece of refuse; one final service from that creature before he breathed his last. Anya would enjoy that, sordid and perverse as it was. It all fell into place, piece by piece, and what worked for one would work for another. If the lieutenant general wore out his welcome he could be disposed of just as easily. In the proper time and place, of course.

Perhaps it wouldn't be necessary. Nothing was, in Edward's eyes, strictly necessary. He found he rather liked Liebert. The difficulty was that, they both implicitly knew, when the various distractions had been put aside, the minor problems resolved, there would be a hard day waiting for them both. Put to one of Eliza's tests the man would crack, Edward was sure, as he'd done years before. He felt no resentment at the thought. It would, after all, be the sensible thing to do. Society was a terribly difficult thing to change; its individual components were scarcely any more malleable.

Though to one side Lyra was finally failing in her restraint. "You could have done it," Edward said. "Perhaps it was a trap. I didn't think so." No response came. "You know you could have done it. Resenting me for your own decision is perhaps not entirely justifiable."

Lyra slowed to a stop, staring at him strangely. "You make it sound so easy."

"Isn't it? I have no _authority_ here. Either of us could have made it happen. Those four friends of yours could have done it themselves, if they'd liked. Why not?"

"Because it doesn't work that way," Lyra said abruptly. Her voice cracked slightly. "You know it doesn't. So we can do what we like. But you're the only who ever knows what's happening. What if I did? What if I didn't?" Both hands raised helplessly, she gestured at the near empty street. "Tell me how I could've made any other choice, because abstract freedom is _useless, _Edward. I don't blame you for it, but pretending it isn't true is just cruel. We listen to you because we're completely lost. All of us. Stumbling around in the dark."

"You do see it, don't you?" Edward asked quietly. "Following me is to let yourself sink into that ugly place, not the way to the exit. You may find it _with_ me. But I can hardly show you something I've never seen myself."

"I don't believe that. These endless schemes, the private meetings, the history . . . after all this how could you still say you're as lost as we are?"

"But I'm not lost," Edward said, an inadvertent smile overtaking him. "I know exactly where I'm going. I think we all do. Some of us just prefer not to see. Only I'm not someone you want to emulate—I'm someone you want to _use_. Another man would've insisted that Harper be shot dead, as you wanted. Who's to say that wasn't the better choice? There's nothing rational about interest or disinterest. They just are. I don't say that lightly."

Lyra's expression remained unchanged. "If you go to that island," she said quietly, "I'm not going with you. You'll die there. Or you'll come back changed. Like this, but worse. You know you will."

"It's your best option, I agree," Edward said, his smile becoming a faint one. "You see? Abstract freedom isn't so useless. It is, however, empty." Unintentionally he laughed. "But what isn't? I shouldn't go back, perhaps it's not _rational_ . . . only I can feel it pulling it at me. Puppets without a puppeteer: it's a disquieting thought. And a persistent one. No, none of you should go."

"But don't you see? If you go, they'll go. They'll follow you there to die and say they don't care, just like you. You know they will, but they _do_ care. Whatever you are, Edward . . . it _spreads_."

And for perhaps the first time that night, Edward felt something tangible. A spike of distaste, a bitter certainty coming to the forefront. They would go if they did, even to the grave. In this place, and this time, they would do so cheerfully. And not alone. Face any fate, but never alone. Solidarity in the ugliest recesses of human existence could be an ember bright even in the dusk that they each knew all too well. One that, after that encounter, felt nearly extinguished. That had been extinguished for Harper. Resentment even for him couldn't be felt. He'd dug his own grave, certainly, but who could deny that the hand dealt to that man had been rotten from the start?

Even an indifferent world was more comforting than a malignant one. Nothing more was said by either until they reached the gates of the apartment complex. The entire street was empty that night; most had other places to be. Anything resembling normality had well and truly been discarded in this city. Again a few flakes of snow began to fall. The sight was still something of a novelty.

They passed through the front gates, murmured a few words to the watchmen, but as they reached the doors Lyra held him back. "If you do go, I can promise to hold out here," she said, almost inaudible. "Killing him is the only way, and so is the rest, I suppose. We'll see this through, and do it right, and so if you do make it back . . ."

"No need to say it," Edward said, turning back to face her. Behind them the guards were getting the wrong impression. "You've better judgment than most. Better than me. Do what seems right to you, you and Kesler and the rest, and you'll be fine. Don't even think about me." He offered her his familiar faint smile. "Besides. I haven't even agreed to go yet. Or found a way to get there." Both problems had already been solved in his mind.

"Don't lie to me now," Lyra said softly. "You never sound this reassuring. You will go if you can, and even if you didn't he'd come for you eventually, wouldn't he? Mirzin. After you and Liebert. And me too, I think. Everyone. But you know what? I think we'll be fine. You too. It feels strange to say it, but it's kind of exciting. Helping with an uprising, I mean. Something has to change."

"Harper, at least, will come only when he finds the right time and place," Edward said. "He's a sentimental creature, for all his faults. Everything has to be _fitting_." He hesitated, aware that her assessment was an accurate one. "Don't think we'll give him the chance. I'm tired of being on the receiving end; this time we'll find a pre-emptive solution. That applies to Dmitri as well, who's starting to sound unsettling. Try as you like, how can you ever be sure you know someone? He's one of many, only . . ."

Even then, Lyra didn't move. And uncertainty crept back in, curiously resembling actual certainty, as it always did for her. "Then I'll let you tell them. Or not tell them. Harper's proposal, I mean. I trust you to do this right, whatever that might mean. I did on that rooftop, remember?" Attempting a smile, it very nearly worked. "You act like you're so far away even now, but we're here with you and we can see it too. If I didn't I wouldn't be here. None of us would."

The smile faltered. Edward found himself looking away, at the guards, at the door, if only because he suddenly couldn't meet her eyes. "You could be right. I hope you're not given reason for regret. Clarity comes at a steep price, and I still haven't found a way to meet the toll. I am grateful . . . and as ever I can't seem to find the right way to say it." He looked back at her, shrugging an apology. "Well, come on. We'd better get this over with."

III

Much of the first floor of their complex had been, and still was, in a state of disrepair. To be truthful that applied to the rest of it as well. The seventh floor had a hole in its western wall. It was still occupied, of course. Most of the first had been converted to recreational space with an eye for defensibility. Communal drinks and dining: some pleasures were undeniably more satisfying in the midst of decay. Nearing midnight, quite early really, the upheaval around them had left few with time for frivolity. This stillness was too new, too disconcerting.

"Best chance we'll get, mark my words" a man said in a low voice. "Come on, tell me you don't want it too." The clinking of glasses was the only response, and as Edward and Lyra entered it took a moment to adjust to the low levels of light.

"You keep saying that," a woman answered, "and I still can't see it."

"Anything exciting happening?" Edward asked, adopting the most obviously feigned cheer he could. The makeshift bar had been abandoned except by two figures, both sitting in the low light of a lamp, the older of the two pouring his friend another drink as they approached. "You're full of surprises today, Provost Marshal," he continued, "so much so that I'm astounded you found the time."

"I always make time for old friends," Johan said, his cheery mood actually coming across as genuine. It wasn't. "You'd do the same, right? Wouldn't have left her with the lot of you if you'd been the wrong sort, if you get my meaning. Seems I made the right call."

"As I recall it wasn't your call to make," Edward said, "but I'm no less flattered. Now, as you were saying?"

"I was saying that I'm late for my train south," Johan said, leaning back against the bar. Anya's eyes were fixed on him, more exasperated than anything else. "Liebert wants me to head back to Merestan. He says I'd better be out of town when _it _goes down. Bad idea, I'd say. Might be it's not my idea of a vacation either, but it'll have to do. Any requests?"

"None that you'd indulge," Edward said. An inexplicable surge of irritability was making this difficult. "I'll make the same offer."

"Keep doing whatever it is you're doing and we'll have no problems," Johan said. "Never figured being sent up here would be such a lifesaver, huh? Someone gives the order, the front line drops dead, and it's all good news for us. Liebert's what they call a commander from the rear. Well, I won't fault him for it." He clapped a rough hand on Anya's thin shoulder. "Think it over, would you?"

Anya pushed her glass aside. "Just be careful, alright?"

"Always," Johan said, with all the certainty in the world. "I'll catch the lot of you later. Edward, Ms Lyra. Never did catch your last name. Take care, won't you?"

Johan reached the door and his escort in black, who'd appeared from somewhere, before he was given reason to pause. "What were you asking her to do?" Lyra asked quietly. And one of her own friends appeared at the door, equally inexplicable even if he was the watchman. Johan said nothing. He didn't move either, his good cheer unchanged but shifting almost into something colder.

Only the watchman was armed, one hand on the sidearm at his hip. Edward felt rather like seizing a table and hurling it at someone, so contemptuous had this entire night been, but the act was cut short by the scrape of a chair.

"He wanted me to go south with him," Anya said, looking at Lyra with distaste. "And I didn't. That's it. Just get out of the way."

Raised voices were nothing new here. The story made perfect sense. These two Borginians were considerably more dangerous than the average soldier, and concealed under the surface of each was something callous. If Edward had to explain any of this he really was going to start breaking things, valid suspicions or not.

He didn't. The watchman stood aside, this short affair had put Lyra is a rare bad mood, and watching from a doorway that led to the stairs was the irate Andrea Kesler. Johan smiled thinly at her, nodded at Edward, gave Anya a meaningful stare, and the doors slammed shut behind him. Lyra and Kesler left together, and Edward checked that particular explanatory chore off his list.

Almost without thought he reached the bar and drained Johan's abandoned glass. The contents were vile and burned his throat, which was all for the good. That glass was quickly refilled by the last of them left in that empty hall.

"Rough night?" Anya asked cheerfully. In an instant she looked apologetic. "Look, I should have gone, shouldn't I? I can see it all, I know, and if I had—"

"Just forget it," Edward said abruptly. "It wouldn't have mattered. We let him go. For now, anyway."

"If Liebert finds out he won't be happy," Anya said quietly.

"Disappointment is a wonderful thing," Edward murmured to himself.

"Sorry, didn't catch that."

"Forget it. I said we'd get rid of someone," Edward said. The second glass was already half empty. "Didn't say anything about when. If he doesn't like it he can go and . . . and what _is _it with him? You go sour at the sound of the word _Liebert_."

"I don't like him," Anya said, as if that was it. "Didn't from the second I saw him. That's all it takes."

"So it's nothing he actually did?"

"I didn't say that. Only I didn't like him from the start."

Edward paused for a moment, watching his glass fill a third time. "I'm tired of dancing around the point. It's a bad habit. My impression was that perhaps after he shipped the two of you up here at some personal risk he expected a bit of gratitude that he didn't get."

"Oh, I was very grateful," Anya said, leaning over the bar. Her own cheerful manner was piecing itself back together before his eyes. "Only not quite grateful enough. He took it personally. Treated me like shit ever since, like I'm subhuman. Never in front of Johan."

"And that's why you don't like him?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed her features. "What kind of genius are you? I told you, I didn't like him from the start. That's why he didn't get what he wanted. There's something _dead _under that guy's skin. It's not right."

"Nothing's ever right," Edward said. His hand tightened around the glass. "Jean can't be blamed for that. Revel in the filth and squalor, was it? I can almost see it now, the only way to _know _and stay sane. But I'd look for the exit, not an extended stay . . ." He looked up suddenly. "And Johan? Explain that one. Nothing perverse there?"

"Nothing perverse," Anya said slowly, looking down at him curiously. "He brought me here. I don't even know why, he's never asked for anything ever. Saved me from execution back home . . . only I'd rather not go into it. Not like this. Everything's too messed up here. Sorry, it's just . . ."

"Another time," Edward finished. He was staring through her, not to the wall behind, but to some other distant place. "Only I don't think that time will come. This is it and we'd better get used to it. The amount of times I've said that." The glass shuddered in one hand, and he let it. "What a fool I can be. I should have had him shot. And when I get back to that island . . . oh, that's a cunning plan, Harper. I'll see Royce and Mirzin, just like I saw him, and he knows exactly what I'll do. He saw it tonight. One or the other, what does it—"

And the glass shattered. Shards fell to the surface below, blood dripped from torn flesh protesting as it always did. All of it went unnoticed, and uncommented. "He knows what I _want_. Nothing less than one last ascent of the stairway, back to Eliza and whatever miserable company she keeps after the rest of them have been thrown aside. Dmitri and Anton just won't suffice. Neither will he." He stood up and looked to the clouded mirror behind Anya, hand clenched to slow the bleeding. The wound wasn't particularly deep. That annoyed him more than anything else. "Jean said as much, and he would know. _Not quite right_ himself, as they say. But if I won't do it myself, I'll be sure to bring someone else who will. That is, after all, my _best_ option. Predictable, aren't we? But there's no fun when we already have all the answers."

"Predictable," Anya said, composed and calm, everything he wasn't. "Can I play? _All the answers, _was that what you wanted? Alright. I can do that. I stabbed my father to death with a kitchen knife. That's how me and Johan ended up here."

And Edward just laughed. It was too much. "Vanity is what ruined you, Harper. Everything sordid and vile is _everyone's_ domain, you psychopath." He took his seat again, clenched his bloody hand tighter, and glanced back up to Anya, or perhaps through her to the dishevelled man staring back from the glass behind. "Well, go on then. If we're being honest I'd like to hear it."

"If you insist," Anya said, as if this were everyday conversation. "It wasn't really his fault, I suppose. He was a veteran. Didn't do so well in the war, spent a lot of time in some kind of camp, I don't know. It was just the two of us. Most of the time he was fine. Some days he wasn't. Who knows why?" She shrugged, even less affected. "Every year a little more _dead_ inside. Most of his friends stopped visiting. I didn't have any myself. He took it out on me eventually. Do I need to explain the rest?"

The way she stared at him then was so deliberate that Edward pieced his scattered thoughts back together for a moment. "You don't," he said, "but I'd like to hear it anyway."

In return he received a familiar grin, but with none of the usual optimism. Yet there was no discomfort here, that much was too obvious, and instead she seemed almost pleased. This pleasure was of a sort rarely revealed. "Johan was a veteran too. Only he never retired. Didn't go insane, you know? He visited sometimes and never saw it. I think he did, in a way. He looked like he could _feel _it, something disgusting in the air, and he always asked me . . . but we were such a happy family." And the grin grew wider. "Only as I got older . . . he barely even recognised me. I'd leave the room and my poor father didn't know my face. It wasn't just his memory . . . and sometimes he thought I was someone else. People from _back then_. He learned a lot from this country. And so did I. One day I realised. There were only two people in the world: me and him. Neither of us ever left that house and one of us had to go—I couldn't stand one more night. So I tried myself first and couldn't do it. Didn't have the nerve. He came in while I was holding the knife, that same _dead _look . . . and I didn't hesitate, just a quick motion, and again, and again. It was easier with him. Only he looked so surprised." Again she shrugged. "I threw up, I tried myself again . . . but only because I liked it. And I knew that was much worse than what I'd done. I knew everyone would _know_. It was wrong. Not the act, but the _meaning._"

Agitation and pain and energy had each smeared together into the dull haze of memory. Someone else's memory. And the distant future, too. Everyone concealed an infinite world within themselves, and to even scratch at the surface seemed a task too enormous to comprehend. Little wonder he had never understood Dmitri Mirzin, little wonder he had evidently never understood Regina, who still lived—cheerful or miserable or apathetic he couldn't say—and now came this woman too and the tens of thousands crawling North City in that instant alone.

"I'd like to hear the last part."

"Turns out there were more than two people in the world," Anya said, her grin wider than ever. "And I knew it. I called the third, Johan, and somehow he understood what my ranting meant and came over. Came _alone_." Her voice too was lowered. "What he saw inside he told me once he could never forget. I don't get it. It's not like he hadn't seen worse in the war." Agitation too crept in. "Only he didn't even _speak_. He just came up, held his hand out for the knife, and stared at what I'd done like it was nothing. I don't understand it. He _ran away_. He never even _asked_ why. He gave up his career, his life, to smuggle me here. It's not like he was married or something, and he's never tried . . . I still don't get it. What was he talking about?"

"Take a guess," Edward said. "Really. Try it. What could motivate anyone to throw away both the past and the future? I'm not exactly the model subject for this either, but it doesn't seem such a mystery to me. " And try as she did, the answers remained entirely absent. And he realised that to communicate them to her verbally, if he did indeed know them, seemed a task beyond anyone's ability. There was something genuinely depressing about that. "Well, tell me this. Has it been worth it? The life the two of you have lived here, however you measure it."

"I suppose so," Anya said, if cautiously. "I enjoy it, as I told you. Johan seems to like it too, or he did until recently. Not as much as me, though. It's too filthy for him, even after all he's seen. Because of it, maybe."

"Then that's all you can really ask for," Edward said, standing up slowly. "A discredited past and an empty future: once you've seen it you can't go back. And you didn't. Don't think less of yourself for it. Any of it. I certainly won't." He turned to leave, moving with certainty and without destination for the exit. Glancing back over his shoulder, he added: "I'll tell you the time and place for your assignment when I have them. If you're still willing, that is."

All that mattered was to leave. To get out, to escape, only there was nothing to escape from but everything and nothing to escape to and the sun had been down for what felt to be half a lifetime, only he found himself pulled back by the arm.

"Don't leave," Anya said. "If you go through those doors now, like this, you'll never come back." No answer came, and she didn't release him. "It's true, isn't it? Tell me."

"It may be," Edward said, his eyes fixed on the doors. "Though I doubt it. I would appreciate it if you would let go. Tell them I'll be back by morning. It's too much to sit back and tolerate quietly. Not here, and not now."

"Then why deal with it alone?"

"Why not? I prefer it, as a rule."

"I don't buy that. You just sat here for half an hour listening to that disgusting story, telling me your own, you just came back with that Lyra woman looking miserable, you met that old friend of yours and didn't kill him, you met Liebert, you spoke with all of us before that, and me before that and—"Anger overtook all else, her accent growing stronger, but finally Anya released him. "I think that's just an excuse. I think you can't stand to be alone, not for a second. But you _feel_ alone no matter who you're with. That's what you just told me without having to say it. Like you seeing what me and Johan went through like it was nothing."

"If you were right," Edward said, still not looking back, but not moving either, "then I would need no excuse for preferring solitude. If you weren't—"

"And did you feel alone then?" Anya asked, approaching from behind. This was a remarkably dangerous person, every instinct conveyed. But was this too another mask? "Wasn't that honesty? Isn't that what that word means? You tear down the walls, one to another. Tell me that was exactly the same as being by yourself and you can go and freeze to death for all I care." Another mask. Only the slightest push would be needed for it to crack. And there the doors waited.

Edward glanced back over his shoulder. "And if I told you there was a difference? Show me the_ meaning_ here."

Again Anya seized his arm, but with considerably less force. Her familiar grin was back, the real one in all its perverse depth, and with a thousand impressions written in those clouded eyes. "If you weren't so stubborn you'd have realised that was what I intended the moment you walked through the door."

IV

North City, though it was unlikely to go by that name for much longer, enjoyed some of the coldest weather on the continent, and often some of the driest too. Snow was frequent but light, rain followed the same pattern, and on the whole it was tolerable given time and caution. Some fifty miles to the west and the sea could be found a port town, quite sizeable, one heavily developed in the wake of the invasion by the southern forces.

This place was, in Edward Kirk's opinion, and contrary to all official meteorological data, the pinnacle of freezing. Nowhere had ever been colder, and nowhere ever would be. Skies blanketed in grey cloud, sheets of rain descending upon them within seconds, and the _wind_. The wind blowing off that western sea cut through any amount of clothing, biting cold not so dissimilar from a flaying knife peeling away the skin with each gust. The sea wasn't even frozen.

And the disparity here was obvious. Each facility built by the Alvernians could be compared to those left to the native inhabitants only with some discomfort. At least ordinarily. For at this particular time those facilities were to a great extent abandoned and still, great halls and warehouses filled with dust and unmoving cargo. There were few ships left to make the journey out of Merestan. None ever came from Polostin. The few docked on that day were Borginian.

Summoning the energy needed for this journey had been extraordinarily difficult. Concealing an increasingly erratic state of mind even moreso. None of his companions then knew that. The two who saw it, Lyra and Anya, remained in North City for the moment. The former had set to work with her usual efficiency in the past two weeks. The locals were becoming quite fond of her. Their own little apartment complex was as proud a den of insurgents as could be found, one in which the national divide had finally begun to falter. The latter had only one task in mind. Its day was nearly upon them—that they could feel, every last one of them. The implicit understanding with those two, each considerably different in detail, was something of a comfort.

On that afternoon Edward had instead shared a car, one provided by Liebert, paperwork and all, with three guests who did not share that implicit understanding. The first, Kesler, knew she was being kept in the dark. If not for someone trustworthy, namely Lyra, evidently being comfortable keeping that secret Edward expected it would have been extracted from him by force. When the time came, Kesler's stern stare promised. Or perhaps she already knew. She was a veteran player of this game.

The other two guests also dissuaded lengthy arguments. The first was the curious dissident organiser Harper had marked out with her passionate manner and cutting speech and, it had become clear, rather morbid sense of humour. It had been revealed but a week before, coincidentally when Edward had suggested they take a trip to the sea, that she currently went by the name Marina. Revealed by the lanky man who had driven them there, who simply called her Rina. They seemed to be quite close. Inseparable, even.

That had inspired a moment of genuine relief halfway through that drive when Edward and Kesler, after another long laugh from the two up front, had looked at each other for about a minute. The more distance put between this woman and their unsettling memories the better. And Harper, too. A cheap illusion, like all his gambits, one easily shattered. A second car had followed behind, also with two from each group. Their papers were forged, of course. Not that it had mattered. The checkpoints had both been abandoned. Something of a general strike was brewing, and quietly.

Several hours had passed since their arrival, and all seemed to be going well. Edward stood alone in the rain and wind on the shore of the sea, or rather an enormous dock, trying to gather his thoughts. Trying and failing. It wasn't just the wind, each gust heavy enough to push him back, but the incessant chatter of the few left in this quiet corner of the world. Sailors and insurgents and people beyond description. Making out their words was impossible. Nearly all of them were speaking Borginian, and though a few weeks under Anya's erratic tutorage helped him recall scattered pieces, the meaning was all but lost.

One of those voices sounded quite familiar, and grew closer. Edward waited, not particularly in a rush, and listened for the others. No shouting was a good sign. Arranging for a steady supply line was one difficulty Rina and friends had never been able to solve. A quick introduction on his part would, if all went well, buy a lifetime of goodwill from her. And it was, Edward reflected, surely a much more tangible form of _help_ than any Harper had provided.

Ostensibly that was the purpose of their visit. Nobody wanted to starve to death. Even the suicidal shied away from that outcome, and to Edward's knowledge none present there were in their company. Ostensibly was the keyword, as always.

"Hey, Edward," a man said, slowing to a stop behind him. "It's done. We worked it out, barely took an hour. Just between us, this is exactly the kind of deal the Borginian brass have been looking for. One day you're going to have to tell me how you met up with a crew like hers. It's impressive work."

"One day," Edward said, his stare fixed on the grey sea. "The story's a tiresome one, like all my stories. And you? Now _this _is impressive work." Turning back and wiping the water from his face, Edward offered the other man a thin smile. "You're not fluent already, are you?"

Rick returned the smile, if modestly. "Immersion helps. Everyone around here speaks Borginian, so I didn't have much choice. Contact with the mainland every second day. It's hardly treason, all things considered." The modesty slipped away, revealing a rare sort of good humour beneath. "As for fluency, give it another year with the right motivation."

The cold and rainy dock they both stood on had been built to service a large facility. An empty facility. Ostensibly, of course. There was a great deal of activity here, most of it foreign, and leaning on the far wall near the entrance was a stern looking young woman wrapped in endless layers of winter clothing. All the Borginians had that longing look, each thinking of a distant home. Endless sun beaming from a white sky above, the clear blue water and the sand below: they might as well have longed for a holiday on the moon.

Edward raised an eyebrow at the sight. "The right motivation," he repeated. "You've found a very comfortable place here. I'm glad."

Rick tried to conceal his surprise. "You are? Really?"

"Call it proof of concept," Edward said mildly. "There really are people who can somehow be comfortable anywhere and content nowhere. It's an inspiring thought."

Rick just laughed. "Was that an insult? I can't even tell anymore."

"Neither can I. How about the two I brought with me?"

"I like them. Have to say, they definitely know what they want. Though they could use some new aliases. Rina and Ivanov? It's way too obvious."

"Not like _Rick_, no," Edward said, milder still. "Very subtle. And if you'd seen her shouting down all of northern command you'd understand: subtlety may not be their selling point. At any rate, they expect the time for that will be done quite soon."

Rick's good cheer evaporated somewhat. "It's happening, then?"

Edward shrugged. "Can't be helped. Society falls apart and there comes a point where you can't keep pretending it didn't. Resistance from the state isn't their problem. It's what happens the day after, when the victors find themselves standing alone in that empty stone labyrinth, that will determine everything. But who knows?"

"If it worries you so much then why are you leaving?" Rick asked quietly. Neither the wind nor rain bothered him then. "Why not stay and help?"

"Do I need a reason?" Edward asked. "Once the dust settles I'll be there to pick through the bones. You can be sure of that." Rick wasn't convinced, as ever, and Edward raised one hand. "Reality is tiresome enough without us each avoiding the point, don't you think? So tell me. Can it be done, or can't it?"

Rick's eyes darted over to one of the docked ships. "It can be done, but I need to know—"

"I'm sure you do," Edward said. "But we have some time. If you don't mind, I'd rather go back inside. We've been away too long. And we're both soaked through."

"There's a condition," Rick said quietly, and Edward slowed again. Slowed and didn't look back. "If you need my help getting back to Ibis Island . . . if it's true, then I am going with you."

Edward heard the other man turn back suddenly, boots on the wet stone. "Was it ever in question?" he asked, staring only at the figure by the far wall. "You are free to do exactly as seems best to you. I wouldn't be the one to stand in the way." He looked back over his shoulder. Evidently Rick had been caught off guard. "Not anymore. Only I expect the same courtesy. Here, and there. The others aren't to know."

"Why shouldn't they? You leave them to stumble around in the dark and call that freedom?"

"And you assume that stumbling across a silhouette in the dark is to have found the ladder out. We won't find that ladder where we're going. I don't mind. They do. You do. And so if you had any sense at all you wouldn't bother, but you don't, and so I'll say it again: do as you like, I won't object, but you will show me the same respect."

They lingered there for three more relatively uneventful days. In that time a cargo ship bound for Borginia made a diversion and on its return reported that a certain island was indeed abandoned. Kesler made several trips back and forth, Liebert reached and remained in Merestan, by all accounts, an enormous detachment left the same city headed south, apparently receiving quite a send-off at Mirzin's hands, and finally the first macabre reports of conflict in the south trickled up.

And in that time the northern general strike suddenly became a rather less quiet one. Soon it turned violent, with much of the northern garrison already long gone. And why not? Neither the state nor the government functioned as advertised or otherwise, the military had vanished, individuals and collectives alike suffered all the more. Social forces that ceased to exist left a vacuum, one soon to be filled. But with a new way of social life, or a northern flavour of the old? Edward found the prospect an intriguing one. Not, however, as new as could be hoped. Social revolution had fizzled out in the west—success here seemed scarcely any likelier.

Rina and Ivanov left on the third day, hopeful and excited and nervous and more besides. Not before Edward pulled them both aside for a last word. "You will keep to the arrangement, I trust? Harper must believe I've returned to the city. That is essential."

"You think we'd go back on our word?" Rina said, quite snidely, but with genuine emotion. Edward still couldn't quite look at her. "First shipment arrived today. Those Borginians'd do anything for a bit of payback, huh? You kept your word, we'll keep ours. But what's the big secret? You're not running away, are you?"

Edward stared at her for a long moment, perhaps too coldly. "There's nothing to run from, and nothing to run to. I thought you would appreciate that more than most. Evidently I overestimated you."

"Take it easy," Ivanov said, and he did indeed seem to be an expert on taking it easy. "Not a word to anyone, we got it. Small price for all this, plus what your friends are doing. That lady running the place now is a _machine._ You've got to introduce me sometime."

Rina shoved him aside in disgust, but Edward barely heard. "Sometime," he said, and turned back without another word.

On the seventh day the call finally came in. Rick was the one to take it, recalling Anya's voice with genuine surprise—he'd been perhaps under informed—and after receiving a bit of verbal abuse gave the phone to the only one there who could answer without being insulted.

It was such an innocuous piece of news. Perhaps Harper was under informed himself, and perhaps Edward's distaste for the man extended to his new friends. Dmitri Mirzin had arranged for a very small but very impressive ship, one of the few left, to leave Merestan in two days. That was all it took. And as far as Harper knew it would take Edward at least as long to make the journey. He was ostensibly still in North City, after all, in the midst of riots and strikes. A risk nonetheless. Too much, even, given the record of their adversaries. Only Anya had thought the same, and had taken the liberty of confirming that information with Johan, evidently still stuck in the capital with Liebert. If anything seemed certain it was that Johan would never let himself put Anya at risk. Which, Edward reflected, was more than could be said for him. But it was entirely her choice, after all.

"Wait until you're _absolutely _sure," he still said, knowing all too well how dispassionate he sounded. "Northern command is the place to do it." He hesitated, letting out a long breath and a hint of caution. "And don't take any undue risks. I mean that. He's not worth it."

"If you say so," Anya said, making up for his reserved manner and then some. "Lyra says it's not too late to back out. Just saying. I know your mind's made up." And she too hesitated. "Just be careful, alright?"

Soon Edward found himself back on that same dock. What would be found on the other side of this voyage? That was the perpetual question. Edward found he wasn't even thinking of this, of the sea, of the island, but the forces that pushed and pulled each of them from place to place and their attempts to free themselves from that particular reality. Others had the motives; he had the means to enable those motives. That was how it began to feel. But what means were they? He owned nothing, was nothing, scarcely existed at all in any material sense. Those means were entirely social. A peculiar way of relating to people and the world. Of showing people this shift in perspective for themselves, and in themselves. Another world gleamed thorough the cracks, its presence felt in even the smallest of moments. Facing that, not turning away, and in this world where all that was established had been broken and thrown aside, where this had been enabled, was the source of this _means_. But was it there at all, or nothing more than one last fixed illusion?

If it wasn't there, if it was all vapour, if there was no better way of life that could be built from the ruins of the old, that left an all too familiar sight. No ladders in the dark there. The island offered a chance to pull the curtain back. And wherever these chances existed, Edward knew too well, would be found the real prize. However she could, Eliza would use them for her own ends, as always, and Dmitri would provide her means. The same questions forever lingered in her thoughts too. And, he reflected, now he was doing the same. Only the malignancy seemed absent, the air of corrosion, and in all these months nothing he had done had emulated her harsh methods.

Though their destination was the same. The concrete would appear from the south and west, the conspirators from the north and west. And the former would perhaps never know the latter existed at all. That was his instinctual preference. Only it seemed unlikely to him for this virulent presence to make an appearance herself. Much more probable was that, if this was indeed such a crucial moment, her direct attention would be directed elsewhere. They never appeared together, Eliza and Dmitri. There was no need. That was the reward for malignance. Or the penalty.

The weather cleared, relatively speaking, on the morning they were to depart. Rick arranged absolutely everything. Several of his friends were to man the ship and wait with some rather impressive weaponry. Not a word was spoken. And finally the time came. The sound of boots running on concrete and a poorly concealed smile from Rick prompted Edward to glance back at the entrance. He exhaled softly, exasperated and, it had to be admitted, quite glad too.

"Who couldn't keep their mouth shut?" Edward heard his own voice and was surprised; it was rather more vibrant than usual. He pointed at Rick with mock reproach. "No need to say it. It was you, wasn't it?" The accused looked genuinely hurt, shaking his head vehemently.

"Give me more credit, Kirk," Kesler said, not even mildly fatigued from her long run across. "I had you figured out from the start. Always knew you were up to no good." Nobody seemed especially surprised, which to her was either disappointing or flattering. Perhaps both. "I'm not late, am I? Figured we were a couple days early, myself."

Coming across at a much slower pace were some of her own friends to join up with the Borginians Rick had enlisted. "No point arguing, is there?" Edward asked. "You are, after all, free to do as you like."

"Investigative work and all," Kesler said, almost cheerfully. "You'll never admit it, but you thought you were doing us all a favour keeping this a secret, didn't you? I'm almost touched. So, what's the plan? Giving Anton and Dmitri both a broken jaw is still on my wishlist, I have to say, but the details are a bit blurry. What do we want with them?"

"That depends," Edward said. "On them. On whoever else is there. And on you."

"If I didn't know you better I'd say that sounded charitable. So, get in early, set things up in our favour, maybe smash the place up, and let them dig them own graves. Something like that?"

"Something like that," Edward repeated. "Though this place has sentimental value, you might say. There are some things I'd like to see, if only one last time."

"And when you've seen them?" Rick asked, betraying just a hint of caution.

Edward stared at them both, his familiar faint smile fixed in place. "Does it matter?"


	41. Chapter 41

"I'm consistently impressed by your results, Lieutenant General. That you could assemble such a fine expeditionary force in the space of weeks would be surprising enough. To do it in the midst of a campaign in the east and this turmoil in the north? Astounding."

"I'm afraid it couldn't have been done without your insight, First Secretary. To begin the preparations for this exact scenario a full week before the resumption of hostilities from Royce and his, ah, thieves and psychopaths?" This unexpected reference to a crucial address given earlier that day, one the speaker had missed, induced more than one insolent smirk in the audience. "Prescient doesn't do you justice."

"Nor you, it would seem. One last trip north but a day before the local insurrectionary elements made their move. Your timing was uncanny." The other speaker paused, ostensibly to glance around at the onlookers. "Though you would be, after all, the one to know how they think on the frontier."

"We're both uniquely suited to these challenges, though mine lacks the personal touch of yours. Your heroic defiance of the fiend Anton Royce will go down throughout the ages; I expect I shall be forgotten. Such a shame, for a friend to turn so far astray."

"It will not be a lengthy campaign. And with you committing almost all our forces to one frontier or another, General, I fear for our defences here. And for your ability to put down this northern insurrection before it spreads."

"No need for concern. I shall be heading our defence myself, and more than one pertinent investigation. The mystery of Central remains on your mind, I know. Mine as well. Tell me: do you know of a man named Edward Kirk?"

"I can't say I do."

"I'm surprised. He's your age, was quite the prodigy, worked on the most exciting energy research until a horrific accident in one of Anton Royce's under the table operations snuffed out our prodigal genius some years back. Was in the newspapers for weeks, you see, hence the surprise."

This small group of officers, none ranked lower than major, sitting around Dmitri Mirzin and Jean Liebert couldn't decide whether they were bored or inexplicably fascinated. Most of them were hoping the two men would indulge their hatred and turn this into a more physical sort of argument. Only it seemed they too had read the newspapers. As had Miranda Pretsin, who had been dragged in as Liebert's guest, if only to make a mockery of the proceedings. And if she recalled that from the age of about seventeen, Dmitri Mirzin had no excuse for this clear lapse of memory.

The secret to this dispute was a simple one. Earlier that afternoon, but an hour before Liebert arrived back from his latest northern excursion, Dmitri had taken it upon himself to address Liebert's officers and an entire brigade on the senior officer's behalf. He had then brought them all here, in Liebert's stead, to this military enormous depot, evidently to cut the lieutenant general out of the picture entirely. The first detachment was leaving that very afternoon. Dmitri had arranged it all.

And Liebert had been in such a horrified rush that he and his entourage had burst onto western command's fifth floor, found Miranda waiting, and received his second surprise of the day. There was a plot. Liebert, a foreigner, would be rendered irrelevant. Suspicions would and had been cast on his intentions, on his frequent visits north which only worsened the conflict, and if things progressed any further a conspiracy arranged among the remaining officers would see him shot in the back of the head. Quick, clean, efficient.

So Eliza Anders had conveyed in a much shorter and more disquieting statement, one that had perhaps saved the older man's life. Miranda had watched, as always, invited wordlessly to participate. With only an hour to spare Liebert had rushed to the station, realising how little choice he had, to salvage everything. Deprived of time, he was at an enormous disadvantage. One of his followers, a Borginian dressed in black, had stumbled into that office only to quickly be invited to remain there. It was Miranda's suspicion that this had been the real aim of that morning's charade.

An unavoidable loss, perhaps, but Liebert was determined to ensure it was the last. Miranda had the impression he was being pulled back and forth, stretched thin, rather like a puppet, by forces beyond his comprehension. Although, to her, that applied to Dmitri too. Applied to everyone.

Dmitri evidently didn't think so. "If Anton indeed held onto the work of this researcher—perhaps even murdered the man himself—then we have little choice but to investigate," he said after a moment's pause. "The evidence will lay with the culprit himself. The first lead we've found in months. I'm impressed, General."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Liebert said, his usual dead smile retaking its position. "You see, it seems every trace of this Doctor Kirk was recently erased from the records. All the records. I say recently because they were accessed no later than several months back, copies were made, and the last of these events occurred some time after Royce's banishment. And yours too, of course. Between then and now someone has taken great care to erase the man entirely."

"Regrettable though it is, a corpse is of little interest."

"Until that corpse presents one of my officials with a communiqué addressed directly to me," Liebert finished, withdrawing an envelope and gently placing it between them. "It seems our mastermind is alive and well. It seems the answers to more than one mystery are being systematically buried. Whatever for, I wonder?" Dramatic flair and knowing looks both, he closed in by the minute.

Mirzin watched with disinterest, cold and uncaring. "If there is a conclusion you intend to present, I should like to hear it. Now is the time, Jean."

Liebert leaned in, his smile widening. "I would like to know, Dmitri," he said, "why it has taken the chief of staff of the entire Alvernian army personally investigating on the ground to find even the slightest hint of an answer to any of these questions. You force _me _to do the work you should have done yourself months ago and while I'm doing it you have the nerve to tell my staff that _I _am incompetent? You overstep. And I should hope vanity is all it is. Whoever covered up this information did a great service to our friend Anton Royce, wouldn't you say?"

"Now you overstep," Dmitri said softly. "Behind closed doors you have rather less to say, and were I to list your own transgressions accusations of incompetence would be the least of your concerns. We are, however, well beyond that."

"So we are," Liebert said, no less quietly. Standing up again, he met each officer's eyes in turn and looked back to Mirzin. "We're stretched thin, we're plagued by defection and conspiracy, and we're fighting a civil war on two fronts, perhaps three. You and I both, and everyone else here, can no longer afford this petty infighting. _That _is my conclusion."

Mirzin stood up slowly. "And I accept it. Investigate it fully, take any resources you need, and deal with the insurrection as you see fit. I leave it all to you, and I expect to hear of your full success."

"And I shall await your safe return," Liebert said softly. Spinning back, he finally addressed the officers. "That was fun, don't you think? Me neither. But there are several points on which you must be briefed before departure. We only have two hours and I insist we're in agreement on this." More energetic by the second, some of it rubbed off and the not-quite-senior staff followed him off to one of the larger halls at the station. Guards were absolutely everywhere.

"No need to worry about that, Jean," Dmitri said quietly. "You bought yourself some time. I wonder why you felt the need for it."

He and Miranda were they were the only two left. Contrivances like these were never coincidence. Not anymore. But this was perhaps not an ideal place to be. Their relationship, such as it was, evaded easy description.

Or so it had ever since her gloomy southern excursion. Ushered straight back to western command by the remnants of that battalion in indigo, First Secretary Mirzin had immediately dragged her into one of the many backrooms of the fortress. Suffice to say that nobody had left that storeroom satisfied. Miranda only recalled the thin smile Dmitri offered her as he'd left. Implicit expectations had come to nothing, worse than nothing. But all motives turned to vapour in apathetic hands, retribution most of all. The murderer, the red-headed woman, had understood that much. What more did he expect?

Miranda silently apologised to both her parents and her friend Richard. She knew she wouldn't ever ask. People who truly believed in things terrified her. He knew that too. Too lethargic to speak, yet all too willing to smash his plan to pieces. Dmitri couldn't prove it, of course, and fortunately his ire was only expressed psychologically. Though his stare did often linger for far too long, various quiet scenarios written in those inviting eyes, and if he liked he could make any of them reality, he seemed to think it beneath himself. That would change in time.

However, there was an undeniable certainty to the man now. Denouncing Royce and his entire following as thieves and psychopaths to an entire brigade and to the world at large through the radio that night proved he'd cut all ties definitively. He alone appeared more alive than ever, to have benefited from his new position. Angular and well-defined, if not for the unmistakable derision etched into his features Dmitri's physical appeal would've been undeniable.

Miranda was not impressed. The secret to the first secretary was that deep down under that stylish blue-grey jacket he did indeed believe that being alive was all right. Or rather, that it would be all right after a few of his special adjustments. This made him ideal for sending thousands off to be blown apart by artillery, gunned down in the streets, condemned to survive and live out a traumatised existence, and so on. He was right there with them, only from a distance. A lengthy distance.

Evidently however, that distance had yet to extend to here. Or to her. "Why are you so surprised?" Miranda asked, standing directly behind him. "You were going to have him killed."

"I wasn't going to have him killed," Dmitri said. He didn't sound surprised. Neither did he sound like he was lying. "Eliza's advice, I take it? Poison, as usual. He played it well, but revealed too much. She always knows how to get them talking." Evidently unwilling to move, he remained lost in thought. A short burst of laughter broke through, and behind him Miranda picked up Liebert's supposed communiqué.

Inside was a blank piece of paper. It was her turn to laugh. As weak a laugh as it was, Dmitri turned back in an instant and seized the envelope. There was something harsh behind that quiet manner. "And now you overstep," he said, checking the page for himself. "Some of us think it's very funny to keep you around. I'm not one of them. Keep that in mind." The envelope was lowered again in disgust. "I haven't the time for these games, Jean."

"Because you're overseeing the campaign?" The idea of him taking a long journey south began to seem quite appealing. "Why go yourself? I don't get it."

"You wouldn't," Dmitri said mildly. "Or maybe you would. I saw you watching when I addressed the men. I'd rather you didn't, in future. The campaign is overseen by the officers. I'm there to ensure Anton and his inner circle die quickly and quietly. They're to disappear, you see."

"Like Edward Kirk?" Miranda asked, equally mild.

That was an awful idea. Turning back just as quickly, the envelope was dropped and the slight distance between the two of them was closed. Not a violent man at all, Dmitri's gloved hand found its way to her shoulder. "Tell me, Miranda," he said. "Are you sure you'd like to start on the theme of ill-conceived cover-ups that don't hold up to scrutiny?" His grip tightened ever so slightly. "Go ahead. I'd be more than happy to show you the full implications of what you're doing. We're alone here, just the two of us. Ask away."

"Were you always like this?" Miranda asked quietly.

"We're defined by movement, not by what we tell ourselves alone at three in the morning. Put that way, no, I wasn't always _like this_. You were, though, weren't you?" Dmitri laughed again, but didn't remove his hand. "Tell me, was the message delivered? You never did say."

Miranda feigned confusion, if only to annoy him. "I never had a message to—"

Another terrible idea. "I'm willing to indulge the chief of staff of the Alvernian army," Dmitri said softly, his fingers digging into her shoulder. "If you insist on the same treatment I can have you transferred south with me. It might be fun—what do you think?"

"It was delivered," Miranda said, relenting without a sign of discomfort. "That woman in indigo, she handed an envelope to the one with red hair. Was that it?"

"That was exactly it," Dmitri said, taking a step back. He smiled then and it looked so utterly genuine that Miranda felt taken aback. "Regina's an old friend. Since you didn't kill her after all I expect she'll be convincing her new associates to stage an assault on a certain tropical resort. You know the one. Too bad for them." Accusation turned to a knowing grin. "We really were quite good friends. And you? I don't like to see you suffer. If this is how it always was and will be, well, why delay any longer? I can make the arrangements, if you like. I hear inert gas is the way to go if you don't like pain. Eliza told me that—never really had the inclination myself." He reached into a pocket with one hand, the shoulder moving stiffly. "Thought not. Well, there's no rush. Think it over while I'm away."

The woman in question had appeared at the entrance, dressed plainly in grey, long blonde hair scattered all over the place, and expressionless. Miranda was the only one to notice. "Are you sure you weren't always like this?"

"Oh, I doubt it. It all happens quite quickly. First you're this, then you're that, and whatever I am now I like to think I once wasn't, even a year ago."

"And what exactly are you now, Dmitri?" Miranda asked, entirely motionless.

Dmitri's grin grew wider still. "A thief and a psychopath."

II

The first train left shortly after sunset. The last train wasn't scheduled at all, because the flow of railroad traffic from north to south and south to north and here to there simply didn't end, and it was possible to sit and count arrivals and departures until death by dehydration put an end to that particular vocation. There was no need for it, at any rate. The rail services were the most hallowed components of Alvernian public infrastructure, eternally free from the pressures of budgetary woes and private pilfering alike. Nobody agreed on anything except the importance of rail. Hope for humanity remained intact.

These trains were of a sort rarely seen, covered in thick plates of armour, bristling with mounted guns and anti-tank cannons and anti-air rifles and whatever else the gleeful engineers had found a way to fit on the chassis. Back in the recent time of civil unrest the most militant elements had struck at the railyards and ports for good reason. Open and organised, people such as they, Mirzin and Royce and Kesler and so on, had either assimilated back into the everyday world of governance or been banished. There was no more room in Merestan for ostentatious shows of revolt, and no tolerance either.

A sort rarely seen, and a number never seen. A show of force along these lines hadn't been required since the northern suppression. What couldn't be carried by train went by road. Armoured trucks and armoured cars, whatever tanks hadn't been lost with Central, and a great deal more than that. People were impressed. People were whispering. Lieutenant General Liebert had committed an overwhelming force to retake Polostin, emptying border garrisons and Merestan alike. And as Liebert and Mirzin were now the very best of friends, the latter's reservations about the sheer quantity of soldiers being deployed had been, so to speak, smothered in the crib.

The schedule was met. That is, Dmitri Mirzin's cunningly revised schedule was met, only by both him and his partner in all things official. Whether a murderous scheme existed or not, Liebert was clearly thankful for the timely warning given by his strange advisor above. Admittedly soaked in sweat after the meeting with Mirzin, his was an impressive show, a speech of his own was given to another brigade, and the officers seemed placated, though it had to be said that all of them were and had always been far more worried about their own affairs.

Miranda had no difficulties fitting in here. Many families had come to offer teary farewells to loved ones soon to be blown apart for reasons that really didn't concern them at all, non-military personnel were there in force, and if all that failed she did have official papers to present. No family to see off, of course, as many seemed to silently question. However, when you look so morose and, putting politeness aside for a moment, utterly out of it, the answers to those questions really do write themselves. The papers were a gift from Dmitri. Fortunately he was too busy for her. After that little chat whether he'd wanted to snap her neck or indulge one of those quiet unsaid scenarios she couldn't say, but it had certainly been one or the other. Perhaps both.

All of that had melted away after he'd seen the arrival at the door. Not interested in the slightest, seemingly grasping the entire scenario within an instant, and drawing more than one knowing look from the not-quite-senior staff, Eliza had waited for Dmitri to make the first move. Which, of course, he hadn't. Evidently he'd found the right answer; without a word she'd had him follow her off to some corner or other.

And Miranda had left to observe. Why they let her do this remained a mystery. Plenty who knew too much vanished on a daily basis. Any hope they'd had that she might take it upon herself to murder a few of their distant enemies had been quashed. Liebert was always very kind to her, in a very simple way. A recent offhand comment from Dmitri had cast doubt on that. But Miranda didn't mind. Liebert might be benevolent, he might be a pervert, and he might have been any number of other things. Eliza and Dmitri were none of them, and seeing them side by side made that abundantly clear.

Information came piece by piece. Distant and vague, yes, but quite perceptive: that was how Miranda had come to think of herself. "Not half the artillery regiments we requested," one irate officer was telling his wife, "it's absolutely ridiculous, not to mention negligent."

"It's unthinkable," his wife agreed, two perplexed children watching below. One of them saw Miranda and wouldn't stop staring. She didn't know what to do. "Is there a new channel for complaint?" his wife went on, saying whatever was most likely to be agreeable. "Once you went to General Hereson in person and he—"

"Don't bring that up again," her husband said, glancing around. He saw Miranda and turned pale in a second. "I've gone through all the channels, there's nothing to be—"

Saved by the whistle. Steam filled the air above and yet another train departed south with a cargo of souls never to be seen again. The officer and his family vanished. Miranda barely noticed, shuddering when again a gloved hand was placed on her shoulder.

"Nothing to be done," said the wistful voice of Jean Liebert. "Did you know that artillery accounts for the vast majority of grisly deaths in combat?" Turning back slowly, Miranda let out a long breath. They were about the same height. "Something wrong?" he added. "I can't be as scary as all that."

"I thought you were someone else," Miranda said. "Which you already knew." He raised an eyebrow at that. "Forget it. So what's with the machine guns? If it's all about the artillery, I mean."

That eyebrow remained raised. "Indulge me," Liebert said in a rare moment of candour. "Would you be opposed to taking a long vacation north? You see, I have some friends there who might be your type. On the verge of an uprising, I know, I know, only . . . well, my dear girl, death is one thing. You can't expect it to go so easily should you wear out your welcome here. Not with these people." Taking a step back, he looked as jovial as he'd ever been. "Think it over. My friends are very welcoming. Considerably more so than Mr Mirzin."

"Is one of them named Edward?" Miranda asked. It was becoming a habit of hers to adopt the tone of her conversational partners.

Liebert cringed at that. "You see? You don't just _say _something like that. Oh, you'd do well with them, and I'd sleep easier for it too."

"But they already know, Lieutenant General. It's too late for that now."

And so they did. "We do need the machine guns," a cheerful voice said from one side. Neither of them were even surprised. "It's really the threat that does it. Set them up so those on the other end can't move without being gunned down and they'll all stay right where they are. Then come the shells from afar, and the unfortunate few to survive can be picked off cleanly."

"Which is why the expeditionary force is short on artillery," Liebert said, suddenly much more restrained. "Polostin never had much of an armament. The campaign will drag on for as long as we need it to."

"And it'll all end as it always does," Eliza Anders finished. "Isn't it sad?" Mystifying, more like it, to judge their reactions. "Death by artillery. Thousands upon thousands of shattered and broken bodies laying in the fields, and they never knew why. They never knew who killed them. But did anyone actually kill them? Murder is a very personal sentiment, and to do it from such a distance . . ."

"We all die," Miranda said, drawing another cringe from Liebert. "It doesn't really matter how it happens. Some of us just have to wait a little longer."

"Some of us go to great lengths to pretend that isn't true," Eliza said mildly. "Unfortunately we were all born, you see—yes, I was as annoyed about that as you were—and until the day that shell falls from the sky we have some time to burn. Living a lie is not my preference; indulging a world of liars certainly isn't either."

"Isn't it just another lie? Whatever it is you want these people to do, I mean."

"There are degrees of deception," Eliza said, ignoring Liebert's growing discomfort and the crowds both. "But which lies are essential_? _How far can we push this project before we're forced to see this existential machinery that we've all buried behind an endless series of thin curtains? What could possibly be so horrifying?_"_

"But if you have to live a lie no matter what you do," Miranda said, nothing but curious, "why does it matter which lie you live?"

"You tell me," Eliza said softly, closer by the second. "The next train leaves in six minutes." Almost whispering, she pointed to a particular spot, one stone among thousands. "Show me. Stand right there on that stone, that very one, and face me. When I give the signal just relax, don't move at all, and you'll fall back. Just an end to sensation, is that it? The means to that end are right here. Take them, if you like."

"The public scandal of _that _aside," Liebert said, rather delicately, "we've lingered long enough. You in particular, Eliza. You've been recognised no less than four times in the last three minutes. Not just by admirers, I assure you."

Waiting in the shadows by the entrance, Miranda realised, was a lone figure dressed in black. Provost Marshal Johan had escaped unscathed, evidently, and Liebert nodded a very apologetic nod to his colleague. The apology was, it would appear, not accepted.

Eliza ignored him again, staring back at Miranda with mockery. "Not the right time or place, is it?" she asked, smiling faintly. "What a shame. Not all of us get the luxury of a choice, you know. A shell from the sky for some. A few months in a dungeon for others. Shot dead by a friend, perhaps? Proof of an indifferent world is abstract for you. Be very thankful for that."

"Why don't you do it?" Miranda asked softly. "Why don't any of you do it? I couldn't stop you, and I wouldn't stop you. I can't stand it, not the waiting, not another day of it."

Watching in silence for a moment, Eliza's mockery gave way to something unreadable. "No, I suppose you can't. Not a lesson left to teach, not here, but perhaps . . ." Turning aside, she tapped Liebert on the shoulder. "Finish up here, and do it properly. We'll be gone a while." The faint smile was back in place. "No need to send her up to see Edward. He can make do with the friends he has, Jean, you first among them."

Jean Liebert was a rather pale man. Came from a dreary place, not much sun. Any paler than when the blood drained from his face then and he would have been translucent. Finally the man of words and the world had nothing left to say.

III

"It's been twenty minutes," a man remarked. "You going to tell me where we're going?"

"Do I need to tell you where we're going?"

Johan glanced back over the seat of the government car he'd been told to drive, stared at the two women in the back for far longer than was advisable, and shrugged to himself, turning back. Pretend you don't know. Make me tell you. Those were the ever so moderate messages concealed in Eliza Anders' cheerful expression then. Evidently he no longer felt the need to ask.

And he had, in truth, never needed to ask. During those twenty minutes, all but entirely silent, they had driven further and further west, closer to the darkened coast by the second. No instructions had been issued. Nothing had been made verbal. Much of this already dilapidated if not abandoned district had been severely damaged during the short-lived uprising. Artillery from western command, from the southern fleet, the garrison and the invaders: all had moved frantically for one reason or another, thousands coming together for an afternoon to die in this quiet place.

It was not entirely devoid of life. People could be seen from time to time, buildings were occupied, shrouded figures watched from the shadows. Neither the poverty nor the despair nor even the battle scarring made this place as unsettling a visage as it was. That was attributable to the ever-visible remnants of what had once been. Of a delusion that had been enabled for decades, a collective indulgence in an existence where all was well and where all had always been well. Where being alive was indeed all right, and always would be. A delusion shattered to little effect. Perhaps it was a living nightmare. Perhaps the fortunate were those who fell to a shell from the sky. There the survivors were.

Eliza made no comment on any of it. Neither did Miranda, who had once lived in this district. Johan took special care to say nothing, his one impertinent question aside. This quiet drive to the sea on the verge of a civil war had the air of an examination. Both of them had passed the first round. The second was underway.

Had Johan not known his destination he would've been shot dead on the spot. Human existence was not valued highly in this company. Miranda felt more or less at ease. Anyone who did indeed value their own lives—anyone who was entirely sane, perhaps—found themselves at a distinct disadvantage when treating with Eliza. Appearing here and there, whispering in one ear and then another, operating under logic that defied painless explanation, few were comfortable for long in her presence. Though it had to be said: Johan didn't seem to mind either. As Miranda recalled, Eliza had once been rather more visibly unhinged, and considerably more violent. This new manner, quiet and methodical, somehow gave even less cause for comfort.

"We're here," Johan announced, and sure enough they slowed to a stop in the least remarkable street to ever exist. Not a place deserving of the title of street, even. So sure of his assessment was Johan that he switched the engine off and withdrew the keys, throwing them back over the seat. "I saw it, I was the one—what'd you want to prove? Here's your chance; now we're here."

"Now we're here," Eliza said softly. "There's something I'd like to show you. Both of you."

And, of course, Johan did the work. Implicit expectation, never explicit. While Miranda took a very careful look around this desolate place, he approached what looked to be a manhole and with some effort pulled it aside. It came to feel as though he was freely offering all the evidence of some terrible crime to an investigator. That investigator watched with a blank look, not even unreadable, but simply devoid of any and all emotion.

"Why do I feel like I've been here before?" Miranda asked.

"This is as far as I made it," Johan said. "Never did go inside myself."

"Neither did I," Eliza said, peering into the darkened space below. "Shall we go down, then?"

"Down the stairway never to return," Miranda said quietly. "It's not as easy as you might think. Not until somebody asks."

"Stay here if you like," Eliza said, all but motionless. "_Here_ has been so wonderfully appealing up until now. I'm sure you'd like to hold onto it a while longer." Seemingly unable to look away what began to look like a void in the earth, she pointed at Johan with one finger. "Not an offer that extends to you. You'll go down first."

Another implicit expectation. Miranda watched the older man for a moment; he began to remind her somewhat of Gail, only less constrained by internal difficulties. Or perhaps not. If Johan didn't want to descend into the void he could very likely sweep across and arrange another outcome well before Eliza could draw her pistol. To look at him then this alternative didn't even exist. It wasn't impossible. It was simply unthinkable.

And down he went, one metallic rung after another. "We could seal him in," Eliza said quietly. "Would he let himself starve to death, or would he . . ."

"Did you and Dmitri trick Liebert into telling you something he shouldn't've?"

"Oh, no," Eliza said, as if surprised, finally looking up. "I tricked Dmitri into having Jean tell him something I already knew and pretended that was the plan all along. Now the two of them will both be very thankful to me and very sure they've outthought each other. It's better this way, you see. Now they'll go off and do what they were each going to do anyway."

Miranda wasn't sure she did see it. "But like you said, he's going away anyway. What does it really matter?"

"The thing is," Eliza said quietly, "I have to keep them alive and working until it all comes together naturally. They prefer to think I have a special plan for this place, both of them, which may be true but not in any sense they'd like to admit. Not yet. What's to come next is their show—I'm just setting the stage."

"So if you didn't . . . they might what? Take this too far, like destroying another city? Kill someone they shouldn't?"

"Exactly. Dmitri was until today under the impression that the dreary island you saw is uninhabitable. He understands why I lied. Everything has to be just perfect when they arrive or they'll never be able to make all this tedious work mean anything. One mistake is all it would take now." Again Eliza had closed in, nearly in a whisper. "It's all an act. All of it. The things we do, the things we say and believe . . . it's an absurdity. Puppets dancing on the strings of _nothing, _convinced they couldn't possibly be anything of the sort, oh, they'll see it for themselves. Let them live if they like, but they _will_ see it."

"We're here now, aren't we?" Miranda asked, not moving at all. "Just like that island. This is where you destroyed Central."

Eliza actually looked offended at that. "I did nothing of the sort. I'm not interested in mass murder, not anymore. Not even conventional murder. It's a dead end. Immiseration alone strengthens delusion—it will never be the end of it."

"You're lying to me now, just like them."

"Not about that, no. If I've ever told the truth, that was it. But consider it a compliment, if you like—it means you're worth lying to. Now, shall we see for ourselves just how a million can die in the space of a second? There's a dead end to surpass all others."

Within the earth they found a maze of tunnels and iron, this way leading to rubble, that to rust, all concealed beyond the cramped and narrow charade that was the supposed sewer. This forgotten place to supersede all others awaited any, all, and none, the air cold and filled with dust, the harsh red of the metallic facades gleaming in what dim light remained—this place was neither inviting nor uninviting. It was simply indifferent. The three who entered its halls on that night could have vanished forever into the labyrinth with ease. And the indifference soon became disconcerting.

For this was a place where people had lived. Scattered belongings, rotten food stores, hastily abandoned personal effects. Hopes and plans and desires were etched into the rust, short-lived though they'd been. Miranda stared at everything, as did Johan, who'd already made a cursory inspection.

Eliza looked at nothing, seeing everything. "Dmitri, whatever did you do?" she said softly, running one hand over a red wall. "They never saw you for what you were. And you never knew yourself. Am I too being fooled? Take one mask off and what do you find? The truth, or . . ."

"Another mask," Johan said, his voice echoing throughout the corridors. "Why are we here? You wanted me dead, last I heard. I ran for months and now you've found me you bring me back here yourself? I don't get you."

They emerged in a cavernous hall. Strewn with discarded paper and metal alike, several faint lights breaking through the gloom above, the air itself beginning to take on a reddish hue, as if the rust and decay had permeated even that, all any of them saw was the installation at the facility's rear. Multi-level and sprawling, appearing to them then as something foreboding, the Third Energy generator alone seemed immune to the ravages of time and despair, looming above as the conduit of timeless forces none understood and none appreciated. It waited where it always had.

"Down the stairway never to return," Miranda said again. "Or up the stairway, to that panel, and . . ."

"Could you do it?" Eliza asked, ascending that stairway herself. Glancing over her shoulder, again she looked utterly blank, devoid of feeling. "Could you find a way to flip this lever, knowing now what it would do?"

"Not without reason," Miranda said, even quieter. "And there are no reasons."

Eliza turned that empty stare on Johan. "And you?"

Johan's expression remained a disinterested one. "What do you expect me to say? It's not my problem. Never was. Blow up a city if you like, kill anyone you like. Far as I'm concerned it's just a waste of time."

"Which is why the two of you are here," Eliza said softly. "No delusions of grandeur; no pretence that any of this vanity will ever change the dreary reality here. There are no reasons, and it all really is a waste of time. Our only interest is to unmask what's real. A corpse can't see, and this _thing _is a useful tool, nothing more." Turning aside unsettling quickly, she looked to Johan. "Retrieve the devices. They should both still be there."

For an instant, unthinkably brief, Johan hesitated. This was something he couldn't have known, he was sure to protest. But lies had no place to hide here, deep under the earth in the company of dust and memory alone. With anyone else he still would've tried. He had been here before. They all knew it. Descending to the lower level without a word, and then back up to a certain assembly on the left side of the hall, he soon returned with a cylinder under each arm.

"Smash them both," Eliza said calmly, still devoid of emotion.

"You're not done with them," Johan said, even calmer, "and I'm not ready to get shot either. Cut the bullshit and tell me where you want them."

"What would you like in return? A return from exile, a nice retirement back home?"

"I'd like you to cut the bullshit and tell me where you want them," Johan repeated, neither surprised nor amused nor anything else either.

Eliza descended the stairway again, looking at neither the generator nor the devices. "I'm not going to tell you," she said. "Not yet. Let Dmitri and Jean play their games for now. A certain island is the stage for the former and for you, and I think you already know the performers. We're just going to ensure their work isn't wasted. The winners can play our game. Play until they realise it's better never to bother at all."

"Might be I don't feel like it," Johan said. "You ever consider that? Might be I've been playing along for twenty years and have had just about enough of it." He gestured at Miranda, perhaps a bit too disparagingly. "As for her—"

"A wonderful performance, it really is," Eliza said, closing in yet again. "You really do look just like any other cynic. But I asked whether you wanted to go home. _That _wasn't a lie. I could make it happen." And again her voice lowered, soft and sympathetic both. "Only you didn't even consider it. You barely recall Borginia; you don't miss it at all. You play along because you don't know what else to do. You're alone in a world of people who have nowhere to go and nothing to do and _just won't admit it_." Taking a step back, she looked up at him quite cheerfully. "Admit it freely: you're among equals here. I'm not asking you to play along. I'm telling you we all need to stand up and stop playing."

Johan finally showed some sentiment. And it was caution. He didn't have the chance to reply. "I know your reservations," Eliza continued. "A young woman, was it, you dragged over from Borginia? You_ care, _don't you? Even if only a little. Blamed yourself for not seeing it sooner." And here caution turned sour. "Not to worry. Not about her, and not about Edward either. I expect he too is rather gloomy by now, in our peculiar way. We are _not_ going to hurt either of them. It's their show too. After this nothing will be left to get in their way."

Miranda realised with some curiosity that the distaste on Johan's features stemmed from the realisation that Eliza had yet to tell him one lie. There were no easy excuses now. No reasons. "And what could you offer that the rest couldn't?" he asked, quite softly. He didn't need to make the threat. All three of them knew it. He likely could murder her in this quiet and filthy place if it came to that.

"Only the distant prospect of a single day stripped of illusion. What's on the other side, you ask? Well, we won't know that until we're there." Again Eliza closed in with no concern for the risk. "Wouldn't you like to see it just once before you die? If you don't, you should ask me to shoot you. Or you can just leave without another word. I'd let you do it." And she glanced over to Miranda, who as ever had watched it all passively. "You too. Or you could stop observing, _alone_, and let me show you what you've never found yourself. A way out. You've caught a glimpse of it, haven't you? You shot the one man who tried to help you. Shot him to prove you could. Am I wrong?"

Only a flicker of surprise reached Miranda's perpetually emotionless features. "I don't even know if it worked. Or if he's dead. How long have you known?"

"All of ten seconds," Eliza said cheerfully, her familiar faint smile already returning. "Thank you for being honest. I do appreciate that." Above them a dim light flickered ever so slightly. "I made poor Kosra the same promise, you see. I intend to keep it. And we will. In three weeks, on _the day_, Anton, whose part is almost finished, will be Dmitri's concern. Before then we should ensure his shadow, that blond brute you know so well, won't be joining them. Their beautiful city will be emptied and broken within a fortnight, and behind the stage this _Gail_ must languish a while longer. His work just isn't done yet. Neither is yours, Miss Miranda. Dmitri is no fool, and he's perfectly right. I do have a special plan for this place . . . and for those who refuse to leave it. I think it's your plan too. Even in the dark, even long after you first resigned yourself to the inevitable quiet end you so often see, even when your eyes are closed. There it is. I'd like to show you."

Johan stared down at her, either amused or contemptuous. "So if Kosra's not dead you'll kill him. I got it. Bit of mercy, keep a promise. Sure. Might be he's had it coming." He looked at Miranda differently after that revelation. Not with caution, not contempt, but with something resembling distant regret. "Only I can see through that bullshit, just like the rest. You need some new friends, so you take her with you and send me west. Back to Borginia after all, huh? Sick sense of humour you've got." He laughed, a short and harsh sound echoing off the rusted iron. "We're not going after anyone I know? Fine. I'll give it a shot. Only if Mirzin finds out I got there first to mess up his bloodbath he'll be wanting some harsh words with you. But what do I care? I'm not ready to get shot yet. Might be I agree with you. Might be I just like to be on the winning team."

"They all say that," Eliza said, standing between them both. "People like us are never ready to get shot, are we? Well, it's no surprise—we've so much work left to do. It's only those above who can make that decision and mean it. Resolute to the end. I always wonder why."

The great generator loomed above, and Miranda stood in its shadow. The decision was hardly a decision at all. "You said it yourself," she said. "Everything in its time and place, and we haven't found ours. Not yet." And that was exactly what Eliza wanted to hear.


	42. Chapter 42

A week had passed since the prisoner's arrival. In that week this unfortunate guest had been subjected to a series of procedures, as inexplicable as they were methodical. His cell degraded with each day, first undeniably comfortable, and by the last day transforming into what could only be described as a greasy pit, the sort of place that might be found deep in the inner workings of a derelict factory.

The interrogators underwent a similar transformation. They too were best described as greasy, in their own way. As disorienting as this was, especially given the ridiculously benign nature of the ordeal—nobody was harmed, not even insulted—it began to seem as if this process which evaded explanation and rationalisation was simply a fact of nature. This was it, and if there was a purpose to the absurdity it was beyond anyone's grasp.

Which the prisoner accepted with outright glee. In spite of all their attempts he held onto a piece of knowledge which, it would seem, negated all of it. Try as you like, his cheerful eyes said, for this magnificent charade will be over within the week. Good-natured and accommodating, the Borginian, who refused to divulge his surname and an assortment of other seemingly unimportant details, was entirely right. And that week had passed quickly.

Could another be spared? Not after that day. That afternoon, quiet and still, Gail had watched a procession of artillery pieces roll through the rural streets of Polostin, in itself a pessimistic sign, and _it_ had happened. In truth it had happened weeks before, but the gloating confirmation, the official reminder, as ever lagged behind.

The radio broadcast still emanating from Merestan, its signal too feeble to make it much further than the small mountain range between the two cities, had received a timely upgrade. As usual Gail had been at Anton Royce's side, as ever reluctant to assume any place of prominence himself.

In Dmitri Mirzin's words, composed yet peculiarly energetic, had been heard the calm clarity of indifference, perhaps even, at his peak, the relentless progression of history formalised in words. It was a uniquely memorable sound. But not for those special few. A place of prominence had been marked out for each of them. That was anything but indifferent.

The end of the speech rattled in Gail's mind all that evening. ". . . their city was taken by storm, _our_ city invaded, our people butchered in the streets for the senseless ambition of a gang of thieves and psychopaths. If the southern garrisons stand down not a single shot is to be fired. But there can be no absolution for Royce and his inner circle—they shall each be dragged to the firing squad for their crimes."

"He really does hate me, doesn't me?" Anton had said, putting on a remarkable show for all present. Only Gail had seen through it. "I suppose I should be flattered. Nobody seems to feel anything anymore; I can't fault him for sentiment."

The first reports of mobilisation were already tricking south. Weeks at best, they all knew. Levin insisted the prisoner be released immediately, offering their imminent demise as an excuse. An insufficient excuse. On that last night Gail returned from the southern command centre to his lodgings well past midnight only to find, as often happened, that same tall and gaunt man waiting. They both needed a quiet end to the day. More often than not, as of late. This was how it happened, every last time.

"You already know his name," Anton Royce pointed out, smiling ever so lightly. Leaning back in his chair, one of two in that small apartment, he reached into a pocket and fumbled in the dark for something. "The son of a high level diplomat and a local official: how he ended up here . . . but there's no mistaking it. Send him back, forget him, what does it matter?"

Gail watched, all but expressionless, as the light of a struck match heralded Anton's first cigarette of the night. What had once been a minor social habit had become somewhat less social of late. As always he offered the pack to Gail, who didn't bother hiding his distaste. As always. But he didn't complain. Anton's rebuttal was already written in those hollow eyes.

"Forget the name," he said instead. He took the second chair, as he always did. "He's still hiding something. This is _it, _Anton. Don't pretend you can't see it."

"You're sure you don't mean _she's_ hiding something? We've been left out of the loop, only . . ." Anton's smile turned into a very self-aware sort of grin. "Well, you and I don't have much room to complain, do we?"

"Tell me you're not interested and I'll call you a liar."

"I am a liar." The good cheer lessened somewhat. "Only you're serious, aren't you? Half the army knocking on the door and . . ."

"They want to bleed us slowly," Gail said. "That's their pattern. Her pattern. Mirzin's not going to break it just for you." Against his instincts, as always, he began to wind down. These quiet meetings were almost a nightly occurrence. The highlight of their respective days, they both knew. "Even now they're all on that ship, and with _him_. Have you even asked why? "

"_Him_. Very vague. You mean Mikhail, or this Kosra?" Anton asked. He moved to light a second cigarette and Gail stopped him, one hand over his wrist. He was reminded too much of Morrent, the murderer, the murdered. Anton didn't move his arm, leaning in closer instead. "I hear he's awake. Bad shape, worse than bad, but alive. So Mikhail says. I trust him."

"I don't. I can smell it from here, even with you breathing this vile shit into my face. Get a better habit."

Anton laughed it all off with ease. Even then the charisma, the ability to put on the most reassuring front, was undeniable. It was a quality Gail had never seen before or again, not like this. Not in such a unique form. "My filthy habit is rather less dangerous then yours. Ignoring ugly truths won't change them; it's about time you accepted that. So there it is. Your favourite pupil has started playing our game. Took you twenty years, only took her five. I'm impressed."

The exact problem. This collection of conspiracies had oriented itself around Regina, who had placed herself at the shadowy centre of a varied and unpleasant crowd. They hadn't spoken since that night in that empty place, and that had been deception to its core.

Gail stood up suddenly, seeing them both in a dim mirror across the room; now it was Anton's hand around his wrist. "Let her be," he said softly. "If this absurdity we've fought for is to mean anything, let it be so that they are free to ruin their own lives with their own missteps, not ours. Don't leave me behind to chase a shadow."

Behind those hollow eyes was the usual warmth, undisguised, but also something new. Resignation. "You really do think we'll die here," Gail said. Nothing was hidden between them, not anymore, yet that distance began to feel ever wider, a living mockery of all their attempts at closing it once more. They both saw that too. "No. Not just what you think. It's what you want."

"There is something satisfying about the imagery," Anton said after a moment. "One final act of spite in the face of whatever malignancy it is that so relentlessly sets thousands to this butchers' work. From Borginia to Polostin, twenty years, one scene to the next, only now . . . it's worn me down. Here is our place. If the next generation can cut the strings, well, I'll gladly play my part." He stood up slowly, reaching for another cigarette, thinking better of the idea. "But that's all vanity. You won't leave them be, will you? It's not in your nature." The silence made the answer self-evident. "Then release the prisoner, and do it today. See it for yourself. I think you'll need the practice."

"Why? You're not going anywhere. I didn't put up with twenty years just to give this up now. That goes for you as well, even if I have to drag you the rest of the way." Gail found himself by the door, moving on instinct to handle the problem, as he always did. But he hesitated a moment. "Come with me. You're better at this than I am."

It wasn't a serious request. They both knew Anton would never descend into the prison again. Somehow, Gail thought then, he was sure Anton already saw it all. Every mystery solved in one instant, and one only, an incommunicable truth. The door opened, the hinges protesting, and as Gail he took the first step into the hall he paused for half a second, looking back over his shoulder. All this was too familiar. Almost a routine. Necessary as it was absurd.

Anton was standing by the window, his wistful stare fixed on the clear sky beyond the glass. "The world can wait a while longer, don't you think?" Here his smile turned almost remorseful. "Let's not pretend that we're blind, that neither of us can see it. That alone I couldn't stand to repeat. Not again."

Another moment passed, as it always did, and the lock clicked back into place. That door did not open again until the first hints of red crept into the eastern sky, already promising an unseasonably warm day.

How unusual it was, Gail later thought by that same window, that despite their certainty of the sordid nature of the world they lived in, times like this persisted, brief moments of contrast and uncertainty, not at all the calm of the morgue but instead a living tranquillity hinting at an existence where all was perhaps not so reprehensible.

Turning aside to remark on this, the full glare of the sun more than visible by then, instead he let out an extended, exhausted breath. His apartment, dimly lit and still smelling too much like tobacco, was empty. Anton had been called away some hours before on military business, and so Gail turned back to the window alone. His observation had already been forgotten.

II

"We've come to the end of your mandatory detention period. This is where I have to decide how a nameless foreign terrorist is to be processed." All of this was received with the greatest amusement by the prisoner. "Ordinarily we'd ship you back to Borginia. That was the old procedure—"

"And your revolutionary movement is of course very much concerned with the old procedure," Andrey interjected, quite sympathetically.

Gail restrained his ire with difficulty. "Ordinarily," he repeated. "Only as of a week ago, in no small part due to your own actions, the flimsy ceasefire between _us_ and _them _fell apart. At a time like this we don't have room for you."

"I took my history lessons," Andrey said mildly. "The old _old _procedure's coming back into effect, I suppose? I knew that woman was bad news."

"We're willing to check your actual name with Borginia. Otherwise, well, I don't need to say it. Can't say I mind either way. I've got better things to do. So, give me a surname."

Something went wrong. The hint of dismay, of uncertainty, suddenly stitched itself back up. "How about Stoltz?" Andrey asked, amused again. Saying that he had better things to do and actually meaning it implied Gail was important which implied this meeting was important which implied firing squads weren't on the menu. That was the error.

Immediately Gail regretted not having convinced Anton to do this. He'd had the time to try. "One last chance."

"Bolkonsky?"

For the second time in an hour a long exasperated breath was the only way to express _it_. There would be no easy cooperation. "You're free to go," Gail said abruptly. "Get out now and don't come back. We've no interest in you."

"Do I get a survival kit? Some clothes, some—"

"You get to leave alive," Gail said, allowing some emotion to creep through. His contempt wasn't feigned. "And you should be thanking me. Had I made it to that town first your little rebellious phase would've come to a very different end. Don't forget that."

At the doors of the southern command centre's main entrance—unfortunately it was too small a place to avoid notice—Gail and two soldiers escorted the wayward twenty-nine year old Lieutenant Colonel Andrey, surname confirmed days earlier by concerned family as Luzhin, to the exit. There he met the other three who'd been brought in, none of whom had important relatives or army rankings or secret knowledge to save them. The leader of the three, a brash yet good-natured woman of about thirty, embraced Andrey and quickly told him the news. They were off back to Borginia, all three of them.

That had been Gail's decision. They could have been executed; certainly it would've been an easy decision to justify. Only when the papers had been conjured up his hand had wavered. What was the point? What harm could they cause now, and why had they caused the harm that they had? He'd spoken briefly to the three, found nothing so detestable in any of them, and had arranged extradition instead. Arranged it with Andrey's important family members, among many more details, in return for this affair with their son being quashed forever.

As a result they now had very personal contacts in Borginia who knew the governing elements in Polostin in a context other than that of the dire invasion which they'd spearheaded twenty years back. Anton had been very much impressed by that. Which, though Gail would never admit it, was cause for some personal pride.

Now to try the same scheme with Regina. And here was the first step. Andrey Luzhin refused under any circumstances to return home, claiming this to be the adventure of a lifetime. He was also stuck in a foreign city soon to be under siege, one all but certain to be crushed in that siege, without connections or a means of survival or anything else at all. Anything but the scheme that he alone, outside Levin's warship, had the good fortune to recognise. Levin had sent an invitation from that very ship. However, since that invitation had been as good as burned somewhere well out of sight, where could Andrey possibly go?

Straight back to Gail.

III

There are peculiar moments where a person finds themselves placed into a scene, or rather an ordinary time and place somehow rendered uncanny and therefore reminiscent of a scene, which are so inexplicable that they become disorienting. This was a fair summation of Gail's experience when he entered the office of Mikhail Levin, rank uncertain, _de facto_ second-in-command of_ all this_, on the deck of that warship on a warm winter day.

Behind a simple desk, naturally illuminated by a small window, for it was about midday, sat the man himself. Mikhail Levin was one of those infuriating cases where someone who appeared more or less unremarkable, _bureaucratic_ in his case, gave off a different impression entirely. There was a sharpness behind that mildly amused expression, an unquestionable intellect. That and a cynicism which alternated with bursts of genuine fervour. A living contradiction, in many respects. That was Levin.

That was Andrey Luzhin's evaluation too. The one place he wanted to be, where he expected friends, and his quickly eyes darted back over to Gail, confirming that here it really was best to tread lightly. Gail took care to watch every reaction, especially as Andrey looked over the other three in the room. A minor functionary by the door, a woman sitting by the window, and another leaning on the wall behind Levin.

The first elicited no response. The second a very real look of distaste, too strong to hide even for one with practice, and the third reassurance. That was all the confirmation Gail needed. He focused on the second, who was about the same age as him, had the snide look of an officer despite her plain clothes, and who met his stare with mockery disguised as a perverse sort of innocence. Levin himself was next. The third he found himself reluctant to face at all.

Shaking Gail's hand vigorously, Levin immediately broke all the tension with the overbearing force of his own charisma. Though he did look rather tired. "Released ahead of schedule, healthy as could be, and given an escort from the very best in the business. And they say nothing's changed." Pushing past Gail, Levin descended on Andrey, shaking his hand too, ushering him over to the desk. "Mr Luzhin, I understand. I do hope you've been treated well? But it hardly needs asking."

"I thoroughly enjoyed my experience as a detainee," Andrey said. "If I had to be imprisoned again this would be the place. A new surprise every day."

The woman by the window's lip curled with distaste. However, Levin still didn't introduce her, and he still insisted on dominating the proceedings. "I heard the news, Gail, and I'm certainly impressed. Our new friend's very important relations are very grateful to you and your careful diplomatic work." He laughed again. "And they really do say nothing's changed."

Andrey deflated at the mention of that. Perhaps he preferred to think of himself as cast adrift, without ties, and some other absurd nonsense along those lines. The third spectator shifted a bit by the wall, and Gail still ignored her.

"You're sure you'd like to sail with us a while rather than go home?" Levin asked, as if it were in question.

"A tour on an Alvernian vessel will do wonders for my career," Andrey said, some of his humour returning. "Might even make brigadier general if I keep this up."

The woman by the window looked at Andrey as if he were a particularly offensive stain on an otherwise unremarkable wall. "You assume too much," she said in a drawl. "That you'll make it home, for one. That you won't be discharged for this mess, for another. Or executed."

This contributed greatly to the uncanniness of the moment. They were bound to obey a very particular set of social rules in this room, and if they didn't nobody would get anywhere. Gail hated that. He also knew too well that Levin was the unbreakable wall here, and that so long as he was here none of these people, even _her_, could break their silence. As for the sardonic woman by the window, Gail knew too well she was an officer from the guard, had been taken in and evidently released, and he was sure he recognised her distantly from western command.

Only all of them had once been stationed in the labyrinthine western command centre. That in itself meant nothing. Her presence here, free and unrestrained, meant a great deal more. And he didn't believe for a second that she was a first lieutenant. What a farce. Gail stared at Andrey a while longer as he indulged the necessary pleasantries. The rank of brigadier general? Clearly the two knew and despised each other. This was about as far away from a case of unresolved sexual tension as could be imagined. Their refusal to hide it was beginning to annoy even Levin.

An official meeting for official business with Levin, alone, was scheduled for six in the afternoon. Coordinating the fleet was partially Levin's concern, with his authority there codified. This ship was now also, though they all pretended it wasn't so, the secondary southern command centre. As a rule it was rarely docked for long. A flash of unspeakably blue light was all it would take to bring that need to the forefront, if it came to that.

But until it did they had work to do. That left some six hours to unravel this scheme and take appropriate action. Several avenues of attack made themselves known, Gail intended to try all of them the moment the first meeting ended. And in one pocket was an official order signed by Anton. That moment soon came, all of them drifting away within a minute or two.

"First Lieutenant," Gail said, bringing the mysterious woman to a slow halt on the sunny deck outside. Sharp and impassive, her features still seemed too familiar for his liking. "I have some questions, if you don't mind."

"I do mind," she said. And just like that she turned to leave.

"Answer them here or answer them in Polostin. Your choice."

Stopping again, she looked back over her shoulder. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. Do you have an official transfer order? Do you outrank Mr Levin? He's very fond of me, you see." Not even waiting for a response, she turned away again. "Didn't think so. Good luck with your investigation, Gail. My name's Liana—it's a pleasure to meet you."

Alone again on the deck, one hand brushing over the transfer order in his pocket again, Gail resisted the urge to crumple it into a ball. Investigation was much easier when those to be investigated were dead. That was an absurdity he could appreciate.

He heard slow steps behind, felt a light hand on his shoulder. Too light. "Hey," a quiet voice said. "Don't worry about her. She's stuck on this boat, not going anywhere. She's not worth your time."

Gail let a silent moment slip by. "You know I can't believe that."

"I know," Regina said, almost wistfully.

And since he didn't move she slipped around to face him instead. There it was again. An uncanny sense of incongruity. Regina looked better than ever, standing there in a light breeze on that clear day. Lost muscle was returning, her hair, natural red, was longer than ever, the sickly pallor was fading again, and there was almost a sense of certainty behind those familiar eyes. That was new.

Only those eyes weren't so familiar. That was the source of the problem. And the wistfulness. "The Borginian knew he was coming back here," Gail said. "All that time. He was fixed on this place. On you. Just what have you done?"

Regina's cheer faded somewhat. "I don't think that question has an answer."

"The day they marked you for execution you told me exactly that. I know why. I know there was nothing I could have done. But we both left Merestan behind. I won't make that mistake again. You're going after them. That's the plan, that's why you've taken in a Borginian officer and this brigadier general. Why you took down this militia and cleaned up the evidence before we got there." Regina didn't reply to that, her unaffected expression absolutely unchanged. "Look me in the eye and say it's not true."

And Gail knew in an instant, not from history, not hope, but from the open way she looked at him, not a hint of deception present, that it was all true. That was an image which burned itself and the reality behind it forever into his memory, the kind he held of Anton on his best days, ever rarer, only remarkably different in form and intent.

"Why didn't you come to me?" The question didn't need answering. He too had left the city without so much as a word. Had reached her door at the time and pulled back. Gail hated that more than anything. "And why take it on yourself?" His eyes darted down to her mutilated hand, the scarred arm. "Don't you have any sense? After last time, after _every _time—"

"What would you have me do instead?" Regina asked. Sailors passed on each side, unnoticed by them both. "We never really discussed philosophy on the job, did we? The _why_. Never seemed to matter back then. Everything you see and do . . ." Giving a slight shrug, she glanced over to the busy port, to the stretch of countryside and the small city beyond. "You just lock it all away, like closing a door on a bad memory. Only once that door opens . . . maybe there is no sense in it, or we're all just stuck playing some sick game. Here we are anyway. We're doing this because we want to do it, not because we have to. You do understand, don't you? You and Royce both."

There was nothing cold in that last comment, nothing but a sort of unsaid approval. "Even if I did," Gail said, "what you have to be planning . . . it's absurd. Tell me you just stumbled into this, that it was Levin's idea."

"I don't think Levin has any ideas," Regina said, ever lighter in tone. "Only he's good at this. Really, he is. This time we're not going to wait for them to make the first move. But you already know that, don't you? I saw it the moment you walked through that door. You knew it the same way I did." Again she laughed, with genuine humour. "Maybe you are right. Maybe we did just stumble into this. Maybe it's just fate, I don't know."

"Don't lie to me," Gail said quietly. "You've never believed in that."

The wistful stare returned. "You shouldn't have come here, Gail."

IV

In a spacious room near the ship's stern could be a found an assortment of minimalistic but comfortable furnishings, and by those furnishings could be found a variety of electronic and pneumatic devices, and to the left of these devices and a small window sat a chair.

Seated in that chair, tubes trailing from these curious devices, was what appeared to be another living contradiction. This one in a more literal sense. Enormous and muscular, withered and rotten, exuding power and decay: in that chair sat what could be described as a man.

That man's clouded eyes were set on the sky outside his dim window. Gail stood in the doorway, forward momentum having ground to a halt, and Regina leaned back on the wall next to him. Looking at him in that same wistful manner, she seemed to be asking: what more did you expect?

Regina had made two points clear before arranging this. The first was that a rifle shot to the outer abdomen had done some potentially reversible damage, given a very long recovery period. The second was that a pre-existing infection from yet another wound had systematically ensured that there would never be any such recovery. All of this Kosra accepted with ease. He didn't mind at all.

The third point, which was implicit, was that there were many questions he would not answer. There were no threats that could be made. No bargains either. Kosra simply didn't care. Indifference made manifest, as if he had died years ago, perhaps with his real name, all accepted with good humour. Yet there a longing look about him. As if he were waiting, even on his deathbed, for something he still needed to see. That was Gail's immediate impression.

Regina left quickly, first returning with Andrey, who stared at the sight before him with disbelief, shaken in a way imprisonment could never have managed. That didn't last long. The two had little to say to each other. One quiet sentence in Borginian from the younger man served as a final farewell, that much they all understood, and Regina soon escorted Luzhin out, giving Gail a meaningful look on her way. Then the two were alone.

They discussed a variety of things, most of them entirely different to what Gail had expected. Every word passed with difficulty. There was an easy understanding between them, between him and the man he'd fully intended to put to death, broken and bent, but not at all pitiful. "If you could leave here," Gail said after a time, "where would you go?

"What a terrible question," Kosra said. His eyes seemed to unfocus a moment. "What does _where _matter? The who. The why. Get that right and the rest takes care of itself." It happened again, and Gail waited for the man's attention to return. Only Kosra's looked at him suddenly, even curiously: "I just remembered. Gail, Gail, I know that name. The name _she _mentioned, back in . . ."

"Tell me what you told Regina. She's the one you mean."

"No, not her. She never shot me."

Fours hours left. "I need to know what's more important than a civil war. Where now?" Gail forced the other man to look at him, his attention ever wandering. "Whatever it is they're only doing because of you. But I don't know how you—"

"You do know," Kosra said abruptly. "You want someone else to say it so you can act surprised."

"You will tell me," Gail said, no less quiet. "The missing piece. They went after you and this brigadier general," At this Kosra smiled slightly, "and I can guess who's next. Liebert or Mirzin. Cut off the head, starting with you. It's a sentiment I can appreciate."

"You forgot one," Kosra said, almost inaudibly. "Maybe two."

"Forget Anders. They'll never find her, not like this. Only Liebert and Mirzin are in the public eye." At this he hesitated, knowing this would be heard as a concession. "Only they can be predicted. You told Regina how to lure one of them in. No special regiments like yours now. Them alone. Now you're going to tell me."

"Tell you what you already know?" Kosra reached for a glass of water, couldn't quite manage it. Gail hesitated again, and then held it up for him. "And what would you do if I did? Run off like they did, leave everything behind to burn?" At this he smiled, almost knowingly. "That's a child's dream—you can't be so naïve."

"You'd call Regina a child? After all this—"

"She's leaving nothing behind. People are different, _Gail_. You and me, we ought to see that by now. I feel like I've known you for years. Let her be."

That was a familiar utterance, and the knowing look in that dying man's face only grew stronger. He too had been on that list of names. A list marked by this same disconcerting awareness, indulgent and contemptuous.

"So that's it," Gail said after a moment. "There's nothing here. Not for them."

"See, we don't get to choose what we want," Kosra said. His voice began to rasp. "And we can only do what we want to do. Even if we never know why. Even if we hate it." Another drink did little to aid his pain. "Ugly truth, isn't it? But anyone who can't admit that is a fool."

"You're playing Regina as a fool," Gail said. He stood up again, staring out that tiny window. The clouded glass rendered even that day grey and unremarkable. "They are fools. Levin, Morton, Luzhin, this _brigadier_: if they don't admit _that_—"

"You'll _make them_," Kosra said. Even with his back to the man, Gail could picture the derisive sneer. "Now you sound like one of us. I'll tell you now: I don't lie, it's not my way. Not going to start on my deathbed. I told them the truth: what they do with it is their problem. Not mine. Not yours. But I'll tell you the same. Give it a week or two, I'd say. That's enough time to sort things out."

Gail turned back to face him. Seconds passed as if in an infinite stretch. "Don't think you can play me. I know what you want, I know your profile—you said as much yourself. Finding a way back to Anders is all you've got left."

Not for the first time Kosra's features twisted into a knowing grin. "You've got it all backward. My time's done, I'm not doing a thing. She'll come for me, Eliza will." He let out a long breath, turning his chair back to face the window. "I still haven't _seen it,_ you see. Well, another week or two's not too much to ask. When are we leaving, you and me?"

Two questions manifested then. What had Kosra not yet seen, and how did he already know they were leaving together? A serene look came over the dying man then, content to wait as he stared out that dim window, seeing nothing. The questions didn't need asking. Some never do. The answers had to be seen, not heard. Some preferred not to see.

Some preferred to pretend they couldn't see.

V

"You're sure about this?" Levin asked, overbearing and jovial. "A half hour's drive is a long time for a man in his state. Risky." The preparations were being made around them; Gail began to suspect Levin spoke so relentlessly only to ensure that nobody else could.

"Take it up with Anton if you don't like it," Gail said abruptly. Their meeting at six had gone entirely to plan, which was to say nobody had learned or said anything of worth. "You'll be here another week, at least. That's time enough."

They were standing on the open deck, the western sky glowing red with the setting sun. Gail had slept perhaps four hours in the last two days and could feel it creeping up on him. Ten years back it would've taken a week for this fatigue to set in. Near a bulkhead door waited Regina and Andrey Luzhin, watching silently. They didn't have much to say to one another. That, it would appear, had surprised them both.

"Two weeks, even. Should the merry band of nihilists in Merestan change their minds, even inspire a second coup, well, we'll all be saved. As such we thieves and psychopaths won't fire until they've made the first declaration of war that's not entirely verbal. Leave it all to us—you've the defence on the ground to worry about."

"Already handled. But if the eastern campaign ends—"

"We're fucked, to put it lightly," Levin said cheerfully. "Good thing their ambitions aren't just the usual imperialistic nonsense, really. Gives up a fighting chance."

Removing Kosra, as per the signed order Anton had given Gail on request, took the better part of an hour. Special arrangements for a special man. Security and medical needs both. Gail took a last tour of the ship while that was handled. In some forgotten corner, dusty and unused, he found an already familiar face. "You're betraying everything you ever worked for. Why?"

"I haven't decided yet," Liana said, not surprised at all. "What people want to be and what circumstance forces them to be . . ." She shrugged, still unaffected. "A unified nation, one that inspired genuine devotion at every level, would never have degenerated into this nonsense. Why can't we all just admit that? Your friends despise me. But they do need me, and I think I'll find what I want here even if they don't."

Gail recalled Kosra's last words. "You don't think they'll come after you?"

Something in the way he asked it drew her attention. "You mean Ms Anders? I doubt she'll get the chance. She won't even take a new title, you know, made the rest of us feel as if we were besmirching ourselves with all these honours, even Dmitri. It's a shame about her. I really hoped she could be saved. Picture it, would you? The ideal state, forever entrenched and complete. It could only be truly so with someone like _her _at its head. As its embodiment." Gail's look of distaste went undisguised. But he saw the point. "She takes people and shows them a glimpse of _something_, something so terrible, so vile, that they'd gladly throw away a lifetime of work, all but commit suicide, rather than go back._ That_ is a natural leader."

"That is a charismatic psychopath."

Liana laughed. "A psychopath feels nothing, and Eliza . . . well, I've never met anyone who so deeply _wished_ they felt nothing. But let's think of the future. When we get back, and we will, we should meet up. You, me, and Anton too, though he never did think much of me." Turning to leave as suddenly as before, she stopped abruptly. "Just watch out for him, would you?"

The sun had finally set in full. All was quiet when Gail found the last of them waiting for him on the deck. Even when hiding the weight of the world, as it began to feel like, Regina wasn't one to hide away from anyone or anything. That he appreciated as much as ever.

"If I told you every stupid idea we've had you'd drop everything to come shake us to our senses," she said, as carefree as she'd ever been. "I hope you understand why we . . . why I can't tell you what we're doing. Not yet. You're needed here more than you'll ever admit, if I know you. Dropping all that now just wouldn't be right. Trust us for a little while, would you?"

Words failed to serve their purpose. This was behind Gail's silences, not apathy. Finally, he knew, Regina saw that too, understood it perfectly. "I always trusted you," he said slowly. "You have to see that." And she did. This time it was Anton's words that came to him. The words and the underlying sense, the certainty, the quiet resignation. "Only this is different. Not like before, not in five years, not after. It's . . ."

"Feels like this is it, doesn't it? It's one of those turning points. Things get shaken up and never come back the same way."

Try though he did to let it go, Gail slipped, as he always did. "Don't throw away a lifetime of work for nothing. Mirzin, Liebert: you're done even if you take them both out. We were both in the business long enough to know that."

Only here came the first moment of reassurance in a long, foreboding day. "I wouldn't worry about that," Regina said quietly. "We're not staging an assassination. It's just . . . well, you said it yourself. We left Merestan behind. But I don't think it's left me behind, Gail. You know what's worse? I don't think I want it to. Even if I did, you know as well as I do that they'll come after us eventually, if only to prove a point. Or to cover their tracks. We're all tied together by _something_. And if this city falls, that something we keep pretending we left behind, this _thing_ that's already weighing me down like some absurd nightmare, is going to drown us all."

The most disquieting realisation then was that no explanation was needed. Not for him. Not for her, not to know that here they had diverged. "You do realise, don't you? Gail asked. The past, its trappings, weighed them down even then. As Regina had said. "When you say that you sound like one of them."

"No need to think that. Or to worry. Things have changed a bit, sure." An amused glint shone through. "So have you, if you haven't noticed. I'm glad to finally see it."

"Tell me it isn't Kirk's work. Going to Merestan now, or that island after what they did to it . . . it's worse than suicide. Going after the man himself no less so."

On the dock below something heavy clattered to the ground. Regina seemed to appreciate the pause. "Still going, is he?" she asked after a moment. "I hear rumours sometimes. With the north on the verge of another revolt I thought going up there would be its own kind of suicide. We both knew someone who'd follow him there. Only it's been months, and . . ."

"What exactly does it matter to you?" Gail began. He remained hesitant for the same reasons. "What happens to this guy, I mean."

Regina's unaffected expression was swiftly replaced by surprise. Not once in the better part of six years had Gail asked her a question remotely like that one. "Hard to say. When we were hiding out back in that city, on the run and living in shitty old warehouses . . . I don't know. For a while I felt alright, like I was going somewhere that wasn't just anywhere. If that makes any sense."

A shout and a wave came from further along. They were just about ready. "He put a gun to your head once."

"And a few months back you said Royce was your worst enemy in the whole world. Now? I don't know what he's like when he's not playing some obnoxious part, but he can't be that bad. It's the same thing, Gail."

"Why do you think I won't just let this go?" Gail said abruptly. "First Anton, now you. He wouldn't say it either. Just this morning I saw it in his face, like now we're supposed to just part ways without even putting up a fight. I'm sick of sitting back and _watching_."

"You mean Royce is leaving?" Regina asked, a hint of surprise breaking through. "Where could he . . . but even if that was true, you're hardly just watching. It's never been like that. The rest of us are falling apart and you've been here all this time holding the pieces together. Holding _him _together. Even I can see that." At this she paused, one quiet sign marking a thousand divergences. "What if he did mean something else, something he just couldn't find the right way to say? Worrying _is_ a habit of yours. If he won't say it, why don't you? Maybe he just stumbled into this too. Maybe it is just a feeling."

"Maybe it's just fate, you mean?"

"Yeah. Maybe. But nobody said parting ways means you have to part forever."

VI

Kosra settled into his new lodgings without the slightest complaint. They used the old commercial block which Anton's father had occupied decades ago. Empty and pristine, devoid of activity and attention. That was Anton's decision. Gail still wanted their guest locked up in southern command. And to his growing discomfort, the two spent many long hours together over that week, the dying man and the revolutionary, most of them alone and unseen.

Gail spent most days dealing with increasingly distasteful affairs of state. Some of that was Anton's workload as well. Now assisting with this, in the office, was Dylan Morton. Though Morton insisted he would be sailing with Levin and crew, he made life much easier while he was there. Calm and methodical to a fault. And tight-lipped.

Although it was possible he wouldn't be sailing after all. Though Morton acted as if willpower could restore a missing lung, his coughing fits increased steadily, fatigue with them, and the demands of the upcoming siege took their toll. Anton observed as much even with his absences, the growing obsession behind them, and the long visits with Kosra.

On the third day four military trains departed Polostin headed for a mountainous region more or less halfway between the two cities. They were to reinforce the mountain garrisons to the east, resupply the artillery batteries—which Gail ensured were fully operational—and essentially act as scouts. These affairs had a curious way of progressing. A civil war on Alvernian soil, however, was a new occurrence. Much of the army, on any side, remained east of the empty pit that had once been Central. That was convenient. If those at the top of Merestan wanted to manipulate the outcome here without it being too apparent, all the machinery was in place.

On the fifth day a train of wounded and dead men returned from a far outpost to the north. This was an affair under the command of a major general, one of the dissenters who'd gone south. Gail's concern was the broadest possible picture. Even so, it was impossible not to be shaken by these minor details; his instinct was to focus on every last one.

"You know as well as I do that'll be the first of dozens like it," Anton said that night, pacing Gail's apartment relentlessly. "Forget that. They want to draw our attention away. Focus here, focus anywhere else . . ."

"Draw us away from what?" Gail asked, knowing no answer would come. Knowing, though he preferred not to see it, that Anton already knew what he didn't. "Fifty-eight dead and two hundred wounded: that's not something you just forget."

Anton stopped pacing, looking at him strangely. "Theatre, that's what it is."

The next morning seven bombs were detonated around the city, the first such attack and already one of the severest intensity. Agents secreted within the masses, a task acceptance of any and all refugees made even easier. Civilian morale fell into a hole from which it would never again ascend. Suspicion overtook all else in the space of half a day.

Those entering from the north were checked carefully. But it was futile. No records to compare, no identification to check: the total collapse of the old order gave way to the new even as it shambled about in the familiar old trappings, the old flaws. Their world lived by the same rules, only those rules had been cast adrift in a murky void. The refugees entered en masse. As did anyone else. From the east too, though they were treated with less suspicion. And were generally in far worse shape; the trip to the nearest eastern city was a long one.

A delegation from somewhere in that vague direction arrived on the seventh afternoon. Gail and Anton, in addition to most of the military staff that remained in Polostin, met them for two hours. They were painful hours. Looking curiously at the assortment of uniforms, for the easterners were generally not military personnel, staring at the by-then legendary figure of Royce himself, the most enthusiastic of their number, an oddly memorable envoy of about forty, made his point quickly.

"We can sustain the defence for six, perhaps eight, months, but only with support. If not for Merestan's reluctance to push further we'd not be having this conversation. They've made no demands. No communication at all. A stalemate is likely. Starvation is likelier."

The reason for this visit, for it had been the eastern policy not to engage at all, ever, with any such regime as had spawned from a movement seeking to break with the old social order, became apparent. The easterners were staunch defenders of the old. They were also very hungry, which can do remarkable things to abstract motivations.

Trade was the aim, not aid as Borginia offered. Connotations here were undeniable, but the deal was made from sheer necessity. Industrial goods, ammunition for their artillery in particular, anything at all in return for food. Southern command would oversee it all.

Hold the line in the south and the east. If one falls the other soon follows. That was the unmeasurable truth behind the agreement. They agreed to it all within three days, though Anton left it to Gail to formalise the agreement. He spent that afternoon locked up in a room with Kosra. With Gail were various officials, each relieved to have finally regained employment, who actually understood trade and agriculture and so on, and Dylan Morton.

Who, on their way out well past sunset, emerged into the suddenly quite bitter night air, air that smelled faintly of smoke, and fell to one knee in a coughing fit. Gail nearly ignored him. It was the treatment he preferred to receive when injured. But it became clear that Morton would need a hand up, and so he got that and a ride back to his own lodgings.

"A missing lung, was it?" Gail asked, implying nothing at all. "I thought you could afford to lose one."

"That's what they told me," Dylan said, as if nothing was amiss.

"If you'd retired you'd have been fine."

"Retiring for someone like me, now, would've been like shooting _myself_. No thanks."

Gail waited a moment, trying to see what he was thinking. "You're not going to make it back to that ship."

"I'm not sitting here while they—"

"You act like sitting here is doing nothing." Gail didn't wait for an answer. Only that day another three trains had returned. A fourth had simply disappeared. "We're done if we make even half a mistake now and you want to run away."

"You have to know it isn't like that," Dylan said quietly. "Even Anton realises it isn't—"

"Prove it. He's unravelling by the day, he doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, he hardly speaks. But if Anton breaks now he takes the rest of us with him. I know you see it. You signed onto this mess well before I ever did."

Dylan was the weak link here. Take Levin's moderating influence away and he would do exactly as he thought was right. "I can keep an eye out," he said after a moment. "But I will be on that ship when it leaves. Keep that in mind and . . . so where exactly did the two of you put Kosra? He's been meeting up with him, hasn't he? That's not a good idea."

Early the next morning the fourth train was found burnt out, its tracks scattered and broken, most of its personnel still inside. Inside as it had burned. Holding against light skirmishes, the mountain garrisons were well prepared and reported nothing but success. The coastal forces took the brunt of the early attack, and already they began to falter. The fleet had already opened fire. Levin's ship remained in port a while longer, private ambitions delayed by his actual occupation, by the speed of the opposing vanguard's offensive.

The mood in Polostin over that next week shifted. Adjustment to the horrific reality before their eyes came quickly; a mood resembling finality set in. The easterners remained to observe and even their ideological contempt faded. These sights they knew too well. It evaded comprehension. Events culminated, lives crashed together, broken bodies lay in the plains and the streets, whether the participants understood the relentless actuality or not. Whether they saw it or not.

That second week passed in a blur for Gail. He managed the endless work of his position, though he came to think all of that simply _handled itself_, and that his role was as more of a macabre overseer, offering glimpses of order to a world that had none. Dylan joined Anton on several visits to Kosra, determined to set this right before he left, scarcely sleeping, coughing up blood on occasion. He didn't complain. Good-natured and resigned, he never complained.

Complaint was warranted. At the end of the second week, another bombing having disrupted Polostin again, armed and armoured soldiers patrolling openly, artillery pieces setting up well ahead of time within the city limits, Levin's warship looming but a day more in the distant port, Gail found Anton again in his apartment. It smelled strongly of tobacco, though no cigarette had been lit. It was three in the morning. Perhaps four.

Anton spoke for some time, feverish and unbroken, but with a renewed sharpness. "Tell me again," he said suddenly after a time. "After what we did to Edward, you and I, I most of all . . . what did he tell you at the end? Do you recall?"

"He was going to smash that generator you built for him to pieces."

Something in Anton's mind pieced itself together. At his best his intuitive senses, his inferential abilities, were something beyond description.

And, Gail realised, at his worst too. True as it hadn't been for some time. "You called a train full of dead soldiers _theatre_," he said. "And if it is? Even if this entire civil war was just one more _distraction_, there'd be even less reason to think whatever sick thing he thought up down in that pit can save us—"

"It can't save us," Anton said, staring out the window. "It can't save anyone. We'll have to do that ourselves."

"You know what that means. Against the best the army can throw at us, call it a counterrevolution, call it an insurrection, I don't give half a shit for the distinction, not when—"

Anton turned away from the window. "Not when the rules of the game make a mockery of that train of dead men. Not when, even should we _win_, they shall wipe the board clean in a blinding blue flash. Not when we, soldiers and officials, were never in a position to build anything but a mockery of the old." There was something else in his hollow eyes then, and it inspired nothing but trepidation. "I was so sure it could be done. That _this _could be brought to an end, not just here, but everywhere. That surely _we_ had earned the right. As if right had anything to do with it. Only now, here, it's as clear as the morning sky. That much was never in question." Anton laughed, openly and honestly, as he hadn't for a lifetime. For twenty years. "This is a punishment that I've earned. _I_ earned it. No-one else. But I can still rewrite those rules. There's time enough for that, if nothing else."

"Alone? You're smarter than that, you always were, so for once just drop the act," Gail said, hearing a futile urgency he'd never before known. "Failed or not, this siege won't be the end of it. I'll prove it to you. How you can justify running off now, when you're—"

"Longing for a lost world would be the end of me, she always did say," Anton said slowly, his resigned smile unthinkingly making its return. "Such a simple thing, to be so far out of reach. No, the city does not have to fall. That, at least . . . but they will never be free. Free from this. Free from _us_. Our failure, I'm afraid, was preordained. The ultimate vanity." He laughed again, finally not looking at the window, the floor, anywhere else. "It is absurd, don't you think? For it to only become so clear now, at the very last, that you belong here more than I ever did, that for all we _knew _the answers really were here this entire time, only outside of ourselves and our designs . . . that we never saw. Neither of us." Closing what little distance remained, Anton's composure began to crack, and even then he didn't look away. "I am sorry. All these years I wasted, and only now . . ."

In that dimly lit room, sparsely furnished and still, Gail found himself unmoving, unthinking, as he stared back at the man standing before him. There were no words, not to convince or to express, no way of conveying even a thousandth of what mattered then. Not until Anton finally did break, one hand pressed to his eyes, turning slightly, did Gail move. They stayed there for some time, as much as they could find, and Gail realised he'd seen this before. For all the horror, the sense of futility, the inexplicable decay of time, another world gleamed through where all was not so vile, not so relentlessly contemptible. He told Anton of that, and more, everything he'd never found the time or place for ushering forth in the space of an hour.

As Anton left, having said nothing more that night, he stopped at the door, turned back suddenly, and again he said he was sorry.


	43. Chapter 43

An extraordinary array of lighting fixtures, dim red and dull white, flickered to life as they hadn't for some time and cast their rays upon nothing new.

Or so the story went as told by copious layers of dust.

"Have you ever had this sensation?" Edward Kirk remarked to the most inexplicable and inexplicably reliable companion he had. "It's uniquely disgusting, one inspired when, returning to a space which, for the sake of brevity, we'll call home, you find some unspeakable violation waiting in place of all that was yours."

"Living in this dungeon would be an unspeakable violation," Andrea Kesler said. "Of decency, of good sense, of human righ—"

"I was referring to my life's work," Edward said.

It was despicable. The so-called work, far from being scattered in every direction, had been neatly ordered and filed with the greatest care. Certainly copies had been made, the originals tampered with and brutalised. Edward didn't particularly care, knew his complaints were uttered to fill space that otherwise could be filled by questions of a less answerable sort. Kesler knew that too, was no less appreciative of the moment.

This was Ibis Island, this was a research facility turned military outpost turned pile of refuse. A cold and dead maze of light and steel, a monument to the grand achievements of humanity and the quietude of their failure. Here the world had come together for the briefest instant and promptly collapsed. The remnants lingered on in shadows and dismal hints of aspiration and expiration, all the world reduced to a meaningless series of rusty halls.

So much for vanity.

"Now that we're here," Kesler said, not for the first time. "I'm not sure we should linger, it could . . ."

It was not a common occurrence for her to trail off and leave words unsaid. Neither was it especially common for her to speak of one thing in order to indirectly address another. It wasn't this room, but the island as a whole. A shared sentiment. It was certainly a common occurrence for Edward to stand entirely still, however, staring into the distance at something that could not be seen. Only this could be seen.

"What possessed me, do you think, to hang this poster, _don't bother me,_ over that door? Who, exactly, was intended to see it? Nobody ever came in here, it was superfluous at best."

"I wasn't going to mention it."

"Myself, no doubt," Edward murmured, as if he hadn't heard. "It's not so unusual, we all have our moments of tiresome self-importance, only when you look beneath . . ." But all he could see was the poster.

And true enough, memory had evaporated into the dry air of the tunnels.

Even here, Edward thought, he had sealed off a corner in which he could be alone, away, separate. These things were instinctively, immediately, cordoned off as so-called existential concerns, something private that could be clung to no matter how wretched a person's position became. It was a literal shelter.

Only, Edward thought upon seeing his former home again, there was no need for such an abstract answer. So he'd felt cut off from the world. He _had_ been cut off, completely stranded, and there was nothing peculiar about it. Unemployment was all that had happened in Merestan, at least until Borginia had intervened, at least until the Stabiliser began to appear an unsolvable problem and the spectre had appeared here too.

Everyone was expendable. Expendable in the most bland, tedious sense. The soldiers and officers in particular, even recalling that the enormity of the Alvernian military served a vital social function, were still destined to be discarded the moment their bodies or minds could no longer tolerate the demands, demands which were cushioned by lofty notions that inevitably crumbled under the strain of duty, likely because duty itself was one of these lofty notions.

Everybody, everywhere, felt threatened by unseen forces that could instantaneously, without warning, dismantle them. What a shocking revelation that was, he thought, staring blankly at sights more repulsive by the minute. Nobody he knew hadn't experienced the same; the exact same insipid doubts stalked everyone, dressed up in ever more creative colours. Everything that sustained their lives in turn threatened them, and they wondered, Edward thought, seeing the generator again, why such a generalised state of dismay, of listless panic, seemed to define all the world. Everything was possible in their time, he'd read once, but really nothing was possible.

A genuinely useless observation. Even if ennui was a historical product this made no difference whatsoever to anyone. His research had hit a dead-end. The budget needed to reverse that dead-end had been out of the question for a small island nation not twenty years clear of a brutal invasion. However, the budget granted had also been out of the question, it would have stalled the results for years and the project would have been discovered. The project had been discovered anyway.

Fundamentally everything had been out of the question. He had known it, his team had known it, Borginia had known it. Total despair had ruined them all and nobody had said a word. This was why, Edward thought, he had never entertained Anton Royce's implicit belief that by calling yourself a revolutionary you could become immune to this, that realisation alone granted special favours. That they could simply, from somewhere, from the military, _decide_ to overthrow a regime and in doing so bless the wider world with the awareness that their lives were, in fact, not as they should have been. As if anyone needed to be told that.

As if overthrowing a regime had solved anything.

He nearly said something to Kesler, but there were no words. Had she ever met a revolutionary, he wondered. All he could picture were so-called revolutionaries, people who had leapt at the wrong moment and plunged straight into a mire of mediocrity. No such question needed asking; the answer had been etched on her exhausted face for months.

It had been perhaps six hours since arrival. It was shortly after midnight. They had entered through the underground port, he and Kesler and Rick and several others, mostly Borginians who no doubt felt the irony of their position, and immediately split into two very unevenly distributed groups.

Too much had changed. Even though nothing had changed, everything had shifted for him. If Kesler had said then that she wanted to leave, which she did, Edward would have done so without a second thought. Neither could say a word.

Something dreadful had happened to the security systems, Rick confirmed from the port office. Without exception they had been disabled, the entire base was, excluding mechanical flaws (and there were many), open for examination. This was, Rick speculated, likely an action taken by the renegade Kosra upon his supposed arrival and departure.

Edward privately disagreed. Likely a special someone had come to observe, just in case, he thought. Now pretending Kesler hadn't thought the same would've been arrogant, so he simply didn't mention it. The main arrivals were scheduled for that evening. Upon which, well, that was up to Kesler. He didn't mind, suspected all too well what her move would be. Cold and efficient. Rick had managed to evaluate the entire situation already, he too was very efficient.

They remained there a little longer. Finally machinery began to stir around them in the rock. A faint buzzing, an echo of what had once been intruding on the sanctity of their transitory void. And finally the message came.

"Activity on the eastern shore," Rick conveyed from his reappropriated control room—that was one way to transcend human limitations—and he sounded a different man entirely. "You want me to set up a few surprises?"

They emerged back into the main complex, to the generator, with hardly a thought. "Not at all," Edward said at the last possible second.

To which Kesler agreed, adding with unusual force, even for her, that they must have control over the lockdown systems, over the doors, to which Rick hesitantly (and what did he guess? the two wordlessly asked each other, for he had been told nothing) said that it had already been done.

The doors were open, but which doors were they? All that remained was a single elevator connecting the superfluous complex above and the prize below. Allow the proper guests inside and banish the rest—it was very convenient.

The destruction of the upper floors, including the security cameras, was not so convenient. Down below all was mediocre, and they examined the remnants in silence. They saw the generator, motionless and still, in silence. And Edward examined his former laboratory, observed the absence of the components of his second set of devices, concluded that they had been assembled and stolen in secret, and responded without a word or motion. He observed Kesler's activities, her insistence that every door be prepared, every exit ready to be sealed simultaneously.

The dates were wrong. A single terminal accessed a week before, in fact the weightless manipulator which alone could assemble the various pieces that had once been sprawled around these halls, burrowed its way into his mind and remained there. Who and why? They'd deliberately left the evidence. But for whom?

As they returned, to keep from thinking of that, of the generator, of those to come, Edward thought of the ensuing northern revolt, or insurrection, or coup d'état, or whatever it was supposed to be. Assuming _it_, whatever they were waiting to do, did not end in the ugliest way, there was only one way in which they could flee anywhere but into the arms of a firing squad. The Alvernian state's northern branch would have to be snipped off.

But who cared about that? Not him. Not then, anyway. It was only with Kesler, who was in the same position, that Edward could admit the banality of their position. And since it was shared on a level far beyond any mumbled rubbish about rationality and so on, it went without saying.

There could be no returning to the past. That, standing in those dingy tunnels, was undeniable. A sudden desire to erase those memories, physical or otherwise, the poster and all, to disassemble the proof he had of his own being, was supplemented by something worse. The future he had grasped had long since been revealed as a nightmarish obscenity. This too. The range of justifiable actions appeared a thin one.

What a start. And that held for more than just him, Edward knew too well, not only from the glum look Kesler gave the scene. But justification meant entirely different things in different eyes, and with a practiced hand it could be shoved out of sight for a time. Time enough for regret, for the mediocrity of what they were and had been and would be and couldn't be, in the months to come.

"Let's get rid of it," Kesler said. As they waited in the dust before the generator, nothing was further from her mind. "Tear this place down, erase every trace of it."

"Let's rewrite it," Edward said after a moment.

* * *

"Nobody's home—the place is deserted."

This news, which was not news to anybody, present or otherwise, was delivered in the perfectly neutral voice of a young man clad in indigo who had yet to master the art of verbally sinking into the earth. Perfection had its flaws.

The recipient of this confirmation had thus been reminded of the officer's existence as a unique human being with his own thoughts and sentiments and lived experience of perhaps twenty-four years of mundane days bleeding into blissfully unconscious nights. It was a distraction. Fortunately both had the courtesy to ignore it.

Each stood at a cliff-side dock, disused and filthy. "Just as she said," Dmitri Mirzin said, after as long a pause as could be justified.

The officer evidently knew this was not said for his benefit. He also understood the implications of the pause, of Dmitri's manner. This could not be said for his soldiers, none of whom were in a position to know such things and who remained constrained by practical matters.

"Do we move down to the lower levels?" the officer asked, clumsily. Things were done differently now, it was well known.

Dmitri watched the vibrant sky above, not considering so much as wasting time. "We'll wait a while longer." With surprising alacrity he turned and gave a reassuring if rather lopsided smile. "Uninvited guests should maintain a certain degree of decorum."

The officer said no more. Few other options were on the table. He had come out of the southern fiasco quite well, taken into confidence in place of his missing commander. Though not with her rank. It hardly mattered. The civil war, such as it was, had all but emptied Merestan, an already emaciated city, for a conflict as one-sided as it was senseless. Rank had ceased to hold its relevance.

It wasn't quite secrecy. Dmitri did not know what would be found in that desolate place. Unlike many he was not by nature inclined to perform such heroics himself, nor to believe lightly the reports of those who were. Eliza had whispered hints into his ear, insisted he go personally, and yet had not known the particulars herself. Only the significance. There she had never faltered. Not once. Privately he had suspicions.

Suspicions that prevented any further exploration. And not, as would be natural, for concerns over his safety. Not primarily. It seemed to him, as an experienced organiser of charades and set-ups and dramatic encounters of all descriptions, that this had been arranged by unseen forces far out of sight as a last desperate scramble for the spotlight—but for whom? There was a malevolence in the humid air that night.

Dmitri Mirzin did not enter the spotlight willingly.

Another man, perhaps even most men, would not have been able to endure that long wait. Courage was all too often synonymous with blatant idiocy. That would be forgivable. Courage as the mask of fear, flailing and furious and childlike, was simply distasteful. An hour passed. Then the better part of another. Two squads of veteran guardsmen, one to wait above, one to descend, both entrusted with a chance to redeem themselves, did not complain. They trusted patience as their salvation. And Dmitri's reputation.

For if Eliza, who remained on his mind all that night and admittedly most others, had an unearthly capacity for divining the _right time_ and the _right place_, Dmitri had an equally apt mind for anticipating all that was overlooked and misplaced, lurking just under the surface of convention. He trusted her unconditionally. Without even comprehending himself how deep that belief lay. In a world without reason she had seized a purpose from the void and he had made it his.

The facility itself had been looted, exposed to the elements, damaged and worn by the occupation of a rather large military force, and, as if betrayed, finally ruined beyond repair by abandonment. He knew he was at a disadvantage, having never seen its halls before. He had been warned by Jean Liebert, of all people, that the man who had overseen the occupation, Mikhail Levin, was sure to have his eye on it again.

This was a time for ambition and a time for apathy. And so there was one candidate. There would be others. The heady air inside those halls stank with mildew and despair, and his escort knew it too. His shoulder ached in that pit as it hadn't for some time, the joint stiff and unmoving.

First came the familiar face of that same officer. "Ship on the southern horizon," he whispered, as if not to disturb unseen entities lingering in the walls.

"Just as she said."

What came as an actual surprise was that no smaller vessel attempted to land. Finally the mystery was revealed by the distant whirring of rotor blades. Another surprise.

The helicopter's pilot had been well-informed, and made haste for a concealed entrance hidden under the earth of the burnt forest itself. No mention had been made of this.

"We'll wait here," Dmitri announced. "Nobody's to enter or exit."

These people were not stupid. Not in the slightest. They appreciated the extreme danger of entering unknown territory through a single elevator shaft. But they had no objectives in mind, no targets to consider, and no purpose at all. Yet whoever entered that underground passage certainly had a purpose in mind. Dmitri appreciated that the prizes below could be endangered by indolence, and still they waited.

Waited under it became agonising. The two real suspicions bubbled their way to the surface of his mind. The first was that a final visitor had yet to appear. The second that was the first had arrived some days before. Liebert's warning had been ill-timed. Dmitri knew too well what company the northerner kept at home where he indulged the vanity of distance as though it ensured privacy too.

It would explain Eliza's feverish insistence on this charade of a raid, on her sudden willingness to divulge the secret that there had been no attack, that the generator was free for the taking. And so Dmitri had nodded and argued and protested as if unaware and finally agreed to attend to this directly. The good doctor had more than outstayed his welcome on this stage.

Second came an enlisted woman. "We found a boat docked on the northern shore," she said in a hurried whisper, "but it's tiny, not large enough for five."

"We'll move for the shore," the same officer said boldly, having appeared from somewhere.

"Clear a path to the elevators," Dmitri suggested. "And stay out of sight."

They were standing in the main entrance. Through one shattered shutter a warm breeze blew incessantly, the doors having long since been disassembled. The report was made. A single person, no more and no less, had arrived. Dmitri wordlessly brushed a hand against the sidearm at his hip, moved for the door, and hesitated, gesturing at that one enlisted woman to follow.

An uneventful trip. There were many docks on the shores, but they all ended at the same place. A small battered courtyard waited outside the main entrance, one doubtlessly traversed by many distinguished personages over the years.

It would happen so quietly, he had been told. It was preordained. They would come, but they had died some time before—the death was irrelevant—and it was he, Dmitri, who could only understand it, everything they'd worked for, in the aftermath. He would linger on. Anton Royce, the embodiment of beginning and end, was of unprecedented significance. This was the night, this was the time and place: he could hear her words even then.

It had already happened. His escort was told to position herself in a ruined guard post, out of sight and out of earshot. Precautionary measures. There was hope in that silent figure while pressed against a stone wall, a sublime sense of _right _and enormity, any question of sordidity revealed as farce. Sordid or sublime, sordid or sublime, it became a conscious obsession, he had earned the latter, he felt, felt even nostalgia as he listened to the crunch of boots on gravel. He would've given the world to feel even a glimmer of surprise.

Dmitri pulled away from the wall, and the courtyard. It was already gone.

In the near dark they could scarcely see each other. The certainty of recognition was all the stronger for it. For the first time since the very first, many years ago, Dmitri made the initial move. Looked down upon the veritable giant and felt the slightest smile mar features deadened to instinct by years of watchful restraint.

"Everything's been prepared for you, sir," Dmitri said, gesturing at the darkened entrance. "You're the last to arrive; we've saved you a place."

To Dmitri's ever so slight annoyance, Anton Royce said nothing. He stood there in that warm, dead breeze, followed the path of Dmitri's outstretched arm with an all too familiar stare, and watched the quiet spectacle for some time. It was as if he wasn't there at all. His reaction certainly wasn't.

Dmitri turned aside, his arm lowered once more. "Were you expecting more?"

"It would be only natural," Anton said. His manner was light. Too light. All so easily the slightest smile was a mutual one. "No, I suppose I wasn't. All as it was, isn't it?"

As the clouds shifted Dmitri realised Anton was unarmed. There was nothing obscene at work here, he told himself. No contempt. All necessity. "If only I could say the same," he said. "That you would come . . . but to come alone?" He considered adding more. To ask if Anton had fled from Polostin as he had from Merestan, if to him abandonment came so easily. To suggest Anton himself had been utterly abandoned, humiliated—to personally abandon and humiliate him—and he said nothing. The smile was no longer even a hint.

Anton's however, had widened. "And here we are. Alone. I'm glad it was you, you know. Not her."

Not a single question. Not one. No caution, no uncertainty. Of all things indignation spoiled the mood. The cloud was thickening again, the breeze strengthening. Suddenly Dmitri was infinitely thankful, no longer wished to explain himself, no longer felt capable of it, not a single word, felt instinctively he would be demolished down to the fingernails if asked even a single question, saw in Anton's gaunt features the understanding, the _mercy _of silence, and stepped back abruptly.

"They're waiting for you. I wouldn't delay any longer."

"I don't suppose this is a sentimental lapse on your part? A favour for old times?"

"Now, or in half an hour?" Dmitri asked, making no move at all. Anton had to take the elevator, and take it first. He alone could throw _those below_ off guard; his very presence would gather them together, if only for an instant, long enough for the strike. It _had to be_. Perfection for pragmatism, a familiar exchange. A practiced expression, honed in the mirror, crept across his features, concealed absolutely nothing. "It'll make no difference to me."

Again Anton's attention wavered, shifting to the now dull sky above. It was growing every so slightly too cool. The breeze a touch too harsh, too heavy. "As you say. All as it should be . . . too much to ask, do you think?"

"One imperfection can be forgiven, I do think," Dmitri said, quite softly. "Two . . . I wouldn't be the one to let it happen. Not to you, Anton."

The sky was forgotten, and sublimity with it.

* * *

Familiarity could come to be seen as mockery.

Regina had little interest in either. Everything proceeded as smoothly as was humanely possible. As expected, given the state of the island, the enormous steel doors to the emergency exit had not been closed after the evacuation of the last occupying force. There had been no power left to move such enormous quantities of steel. No interest. The small garrison left by Royce had been murdered, to put it bluntly, and nobody else had been since.

What they had been informed, several days after leaving Polostin, after the city lost contact entirely, was nothing. Inference was all they had. Something had cut them off, something had occurred in their absence, neither Gail nor Dylan nor anyone could be contacted. Merestan too, they had learned, was all but collapsed. Empty, devoid of life, no longer functioning even nominally outside western command itself. An entire state had boiled down to the military that swept over the countryside, with nowhere to return to, nowhere to go but south to salvage a purpose from the wreckage. The north too had erupted in revolt. Reports of total dysfunction lingered ominously, forgotten, but the reports were the same in every direction. Only the names changed.

Everything had become flattened, distorted, as if an abstraction such as the Alvernian state, torn apart, had been resembled as farce only to mock each and every participant. Flee where you like or remain where you are, the reports seemed to convey, secretly—this is no longer a matter of distance and temporality.

Ibis Island was not immune. This, above all else, warned that their private notions on this expedition were hopelessly misconceived. That was nothing new. The three of them landed inside with no issues. They passed the doors with no issues either. What had once been the most laudable security system no longer functioned, all the doors simply opened on command. Wonderfully simple.

Ignoring the aforementioned familiarity and mockery, nostalgia really, was not especially difficult either. One brief feverish nightmare, then a long absence. That was Ibis Island to her. But the layout, now that presented no difficulties. The service and cargo tunnels deep underground—the horizontal lifts had also ceased to function—opened into several areas of the base.

Destroying the generator, Regina mused on the way, watching Liana in particular (who was also being watched at gunpoint by a gleeful Andrey) would present a minor challenge. It would, quite plainly, have to be blown up. This was not in the official schedule.

In and of itself it really meant nothing at all, had no significance but that which it was assigned. Even this seemed somehow naïve—assigned by whom, or what? Yet here they all were. Hence these two alone being brought along, they who would comply without warning anyone else, especially since Levin did think this was an exploratory expedition. Liana had been told that if she cooperated, and quietly, she could run away in the aftermath. Disgraced and ruined, the brigadier had ceased to be anything of the sort. Regina had no interest whatsoever in her.

Something else, however, was bothering her. A darkened hole in the wall, a stair up ahead. "Keep moving," she said, not to them, but to herself, watching with some amusement as Liana stared at the architecture, so very foreign. So very superior. "To the port, no breaks."

It was a procedure from a life she'd thought abandoned. The three of them would proceed to the fuel storage area, the underground port, and become saboteurs. No need for speculative thought here. Regina and her enlisted aid Liana would do the work, Andrey would assist, ensure they weren't surprised, and, finished, they would promptly leave.

To be free of this place, of these people, of this part, of this role (and all others) she had been forced to assume. What use was there, under these circumstances, a lifetime of them, in asking: is there such a thing as a life which is not contemptible?

There were hints, enough to keep the wheels turning. The island would be gone, preferably Dmitri Mirzin would be gone, _liquidated_, as Levin had once put it; any trace of her old life gone with them, and then came the rest. Undone shackles. Nothing was further from her mind than obligation. A blank slate at last.

Kosra called it a parting gift. He saw it. Had done it himself, in fact. What a relief it had been, speaking to him. Even if, for that man, to be unshackled had meant facilitating any number of bizarre atrocities for some sick psychological, always psychological, end, he understood. He had told her of this. It was the last time they had spoken, and the last time, he said, they ever would.

Perhaps he was lying; she doubted it. Didn't particularly care. At a certain time, it would become public knowledge that the island was open for tourism, as he put it, and slightly before that it would become privately known. Dmitri may have been there, underground, even then. The lights were still on. It looked dead. It didn't feel dead.

There was no way to know, and nothing to do.

Something in the nature of a plan, of a design, a scheme, implies a certain amount of conceit. Proceeding from conditions which you suppose you understand, Regina thought, comes an ideal which is to be realised, actively put in place. The ideal sprouts up from somewhere. This somewhere is not to be questioned. It's as far away from _this_ as we can think of, so it's good enough. The limits of thought, however, were not to be discussed. Or thought.

Regina expected one of two things. The first was that the timing was sufficient, they would be able to do things as expected and promptly leave. The second was that the timing was awful and that the three of them would be shot on the spot. Even then, however, the smug executioner would be buried by artillery, for Levin was clear at least on that. At that point it seemed a fitting exchange. She was not an optimist.

Not a prophet either. The way to the port was not blocked.

Neither was it empty. Waiting, however, was not Dmitri Mirzin.

What a resigned manner they were confronted with, the very image of dignity bathed in fluorescent lighting, of certainty in a man very adept at pretending he had any to offer. Only, perhaps, this one time, it wasn't pretence.

Of all there, Anton Royce included, Regina was the only one not to show surprise. And to move. An order was shouted, yes, an order, and the brigadier and Borginian obeyed. She was not going to wait, could feel immediately how terribly complicated this had become, moved back for the exit and heard the elevator descending.

Royce didn't move. As they reached the door, as Andrey slipped through and spitefully shoved Liana back inside, he spoke so quietly that Regina paused, knowing immediately that all preconceived notions, particularly those from the last twenty minutes, had evaporated.

"You should go," Royce said simply. If he hadn't said that, it would've happened. Those pale eyes flashed past, saw both companions, and became puzzled, reluctant. A wave of urgency unlike anything he'd ever shown before swept it all away; he came forward suddenly, frantically, as if trying to shove her out the door. "He's upstairs. _Go._ You were never supposed to be here, cannot be here, it's for me to see, only me; do you still insist on acting as though my mistakes, my desires, _anyone else's_ are yours to endure? Forget _us_. You're the last of them, you and him, stubborn, stupid, blind to a fault, as if coming here ever again would solve anything, as if you _had _to be here, but really you've seen nothing, you've solved nothing, even Gail knows it now, what you refuse to see, why I could never have brought him here: why you _have to leave_. Dmitri is going to cut off the exits, he—"

Regina had heard enough. Too much.

Too long. Someone, somewhere tripped the security systems. The doors did not exactly close; they slammed shut with additional steel plating on either side. This was all they did. No bright lights, no loud noises, no helpful incentives to panic. Only silence, only steel.

For all Regina had seen, the look of defeat, of utter ruin, on Royce's face then, was simply too much. It was terrifying. He was not supposed to appear this way, pathetic and broken. Of all left, he had avoided it. From behind the sealed door to the port she heard the pounding of a fist, from the one directly behind Andrey shouted something that went unheard, and, she could swear, she heard the familiar sound of boots on steel outside the only other entrance. It was perfection. Liana sank down against the floor, more thoughtful than panicked.

All that time, distance, and it felt greater than ever. It was. Regina could imagine it well. The satisfaction on that gaunt face, piercing as he stared down at Royce, knowing he'd taken it all away, had sealed him in. Him and his ever-loyal associates. How wrong he was. Misunderstanding was all there ever could be, the look on Royce's face conveyed. This was what his entire life had distilled down to. Even if there were truths in the world, they could not be understood, only misunderstood, misinterpreted, missed entirely. The elevator had nearly arrived. Its occupants would never go beyond this room if his understanding of the situation resembled reality.

None of their speculations, Regina wanted to say, staring at the new arrivals, seeing herself from five years prior in the uneasy woman facing her, had ever resembled reality. Three unfamiliar faces, three familiar indigo uniforms. Up the elevator went again. Royce stood in front, waiting patiently, Liana jumped up suddenly, and Regina considered the laughable notion of dying here, of all places, in a brief and failed shootout with Alvernian soldiers. It didn't happen.

Three more added to the total, each lined up nicely against the wall. Something had gone awry, something in the minds of these uniformed people who now had reason to wonder what their commanding officer was doing under a foreign island.

"Are we to wait here," Royce asked, "or would you like to begin?"

If ever a question should have been rhetorical. However, if it wasn't rhetorical it wasn't literal either. Something was not as it should have been in that man's voice, his eyes, even his posture. Liana had begun ingratiating herself, whispering into their lieutenant's ear frantically, the poor man was more perplexed by the instant. That meant indecision. Everything meant indecision. Indecision, Regina thought, was the only constant.

For a time nothing happened. Not even in the most abstract sense. Not until the elevator was called up a third time, not until the alarms began to sound in full. Someone triggered the full lockdown. As the elevator descended, as the lieutenant pushed Liana back apologetically, for what that was worth, which was nothing. The lights too began to flicker and fail. Sabotage or malfunction, all was not well on Ibis Island. All had never been well.

The systems, every one of them, failed. The doors shot open, the alarms went silent, the elevator opened, and indecision and tension broke free in the most spectacular fashion. Stumbling in the dark, shouts came from each direction, Regina went for a fallen rifle, found nothing, despised how muscle memory still sent commands to nerves that were not there, and was pushed aside by something heavy. She saw a familiar shape again as the faintest red emergency lighting flickered to life, another in the open doors of the elevator.

Just long enough to paint the single most unflattering picture possible in the eye of one spectator. From the twin doors leading out to the stairway, from the third exit, her sudden contempt visible in the gloom, Kesler's cold eyes flickered between the man now in the last light of the elevator and Regina, the latter realising what she thought, saw the confused contempt, the fatal misunderstanding, saw the surprise in Dmitri Mirzin's expression, before Kesler turned and was gone.

It was the only thing to do. Andrey was back, several shots were fired from the port door, others had arrived from somewhere, for unknowable reasons, unseen but loud. The guardsmen were so quickly under siege, but Kesler was gone, two halls were empty, they could flee. Liana saw Dmitri, how little he cared, envisioned the complete obliteration that would come to be if she said even a word, and ran. Ran the way Kesler did, with two of her guardsmen too. Old loyalties counted for something. Regina forgot her.

Behind she heard Andrey shouting something, it went unheard, saw how hopeless Royce's position was, and he saw hers too, and pushed him to one side, almost to the exit. He still didn't run. What was he thinking? It was repugnant. "You skipped the melodrama this time, Dmitri," she called out, putting on a part, buying a few more seconds. "I can't thank you enough for that."

Royce _still_ did not run. He was perfectly positioned, by the door, they were still distracted, and Dmitri turned to Regina instead, through the gloom and sweat and deafening sound of rifles exchanging fire. Two guardsmen had fallen, neither killed, both moaning, the stench of blood and worse adding to the shades of misery. It sounded, Regina knew with a familiar sinking feeling, that they were triumphant, even on the floor in pools of gore. Those in the port grew ever quieter.

Mirzin knew, and he did not care. It occurred to her, almost instantaneously, that Dmitri was in fact here for the exact same reason as her. The past weighed like a nightmare on each of their minds. Everything had to be repaired, fixed, concluded; for him this was cleanup in a sense more metaphysical than practical. The generator, for him too, was secondary. All of it was a formality, an excuse, yet it did not look so simple. It looked _wrong_. It had fallen apart _for him_, in his moment of triumph. From before those doors had opened.

Regina laughed openly, loudly. It was wonderful. Dmitri's eyes flashed with hatred; it was the most genuine emotion she'd ever seen from him. He knew that she knew. He despised every one of them, including the guardsmen with him. Including Liana, who had fled for that exact reason. He would prefer if every last individual in that room ceased to exist.

Obsession alone was on his mind. The object of this obsession, Royce, however, stared back in total silence, motionless, tranquil, a deviation from all that was expected; the shot was not taken, as if his inaction alone had ruined the moment for Dmitri again. Immediately she thought of Gail, of what he'd seen in this man, caught a final glimpse of it herself. There was no time. Royce pointed at the ceiling with one hand, in the dark, he mouthed something that went unheard, and he was gone.

As familiar as it was mocking. In the din of the port firefight, each taking a separate vain direction, they each followed his lead a final time.

It was only at the end, in the clear air of a long forgotten cargo hall, one that had housed the main conventional generator for this entire island, that she and Andrey were alone. Nobody followed. The shouts, the shots, all grew further, fewer, all after Royce, and Liana before him, and Kesler before her. Only this was premature, this was vain, and it was Andrey who heard a single follower in the dark, unaccompanied, and, overcome with dread, fired a shot into the tunnels.

His horror only grew. His fingers went limp, body trembling, and he darted back to the tunnel, to crawl in the dark, to discover what he had done, the magnitude of his motion. Wordlessly Regina held him back.

They had ostensibly come to burn a generator. That generator was out of reach. This hall was all but pitch black, all but empty, the slightest sound casting a distant echo. Not entirely empty. Someone had manually switched off the power, extraordinarily mundane, extraordinarily well timed. Her intent was conveyed in silence, understood immediately, with a strange resignation, and as they reached the far exit, their first entrance, blinding light flooded the halls once more.

Shortly after what was left of the months old cargo erupted in white flame, the very last traces of stored fuel warping the concrete and steel. It wouldn't be enough to bring down the floors above. Enough to seal the way back for a time, certainly.

"This was to be our detached act, yes?" Andrey said, so very quietly. He had the air of someone awakening from broken sleep into a reality even less appealing than the cheap imitation of dreams. "Get in, get out. But this, you . . ."

There weren't enough words in all the world. It was irrelevant. Andrey's complaint was a mask, one for his own comfort. But when his eyes widened, his hand clenched, the mask broke. They were beyond the flames, well beyond, and Regina saw it too. A heavy set figure in the dark, a case in one hand. He took the time to approach them, to a slight distance.

A familiar look. He was entirely alone, but the case was shut and he was gone. Gone, Regina realised, away from where Mirzin had to be, away from assistance.

Andrey's hand faltered. "It couldn't be," he murmured. He was utterly unable to take the shot. Indecision had stopped him much as, though it appeared otherwise, indecision had enabled him before. The air was beginning to grow warmer. Regina did not need to ask the question. She recognised the shape, recalled a name. All was quiet, all was still. The distant firefight had ceased. The tunnels so quickly returned to their languid state.

Finally they came back to the elevator hall. Several new corpses appeared, sprawled through the tunnels, and most were not uniformed. Four, however, were. Four of six, and if two had fled . . . whoever sabotaged the power, Johan was the name Andrey had not needed to say, that had ruined a few ambitions with the flip of a lever. The port office was quiet and still. They couldn't bring themselves to look inside. The stench alone said all that needed to be said.

It was a simple idea. Deceitful to more than one, far more final than burning a pitiful quantity of excess fuel. Andrey was told to take the elevator up, to the surface, to air and sanity, and send a message to Levin. It was a trap, the island was useless. It had lost its significance, was no different to that from which they'd fled. A disappointment.

Begin the bombardment.

He did exactly that, returned, reported even more guardsmen waiting above, and was told to flee to the helicopter.

The image of them both, of Anton Royce and Dmitri Mirzin, the former having travelled so far to warn, to inform, to amend, to die, or perhaps for nothing at all. After all the reasons always were, Regina thought, false reasons, reasons after the fact; the latter faced with the former, with everything he'd ever wanted and the means to achieve it, motionless in a filthy hall, waiting for _nothing_, was burned in her mind.

Etched further in while she too waited. There was no such thing as a detached act. And Royce? The slightest pang of regret soon faded.

It was, after all, not her responsibility.

* * *

It had been a remarkably simple motion. Not, however, thoughtless. Edward was entirely aware that when he, when anyone_, _tried to claim that something had been done thoughtlessly, without reason, all that meant was that the motivation was buried somewhere out of sight. It did exist. It was there. It was not necessarily known. Not necessarily knowable.

In that particular instant, when what was expected came so neatly to fruition—for that delightful man Harper had said as much: it was Anton's day too, but accompanied, he could not have made the journey blindly, and Kesler had so nearly opened the door to find not one but four intruders, his hand had moved. He had shielded her from considerable danger, all so cleanly.

A line which was thought exactly as it was, no deviations. He had shielded her from considerable danger. What he had not done was trigger the power failure, what he had not done was open the doors again, nor cut the lights, nor manually switch off the generator, nor sound the alarms.

Certainly he had not cut his own access to every system in the facility.

The Third Energy generator remained intact. Edward did not take the stairs, and he did not take the concealed exit in the former researchers' quarters. Someone else was still here, he knew where to wait, he knew this place better than any other, and he was soon validated. When the lights returned in all their blinding glory, he did not move.

Something about this place had begun to eat away at him. Edward could feel himself being torn apart by the familiar sights, the hideous motionlessness of the place. After all, his research had been a complete failure, Edward told himself, in fact in a certain sense he had told himself this from his earliest days as a student of the natural sciences. This was not pessimism, merely a suspicion.

A laughable concern, yet it had bothered him his entire career. There was a superficiality, a lack of depth, an acceptance of what at the expense of why. What he could never tolerate was not shoddy work, as such, but complacency. Once granted a team of his own he had proceeded to destroy that team from the inside out with completely unreasonable questions. It was possible, without making these enquiries, he believed, for everything they had discovered to consist of false results gained from false experiments leading to false certainty of the false causes of false phenomena. The Third Energy had, solely because of its failure, the bizarre quality of that failure, been the crowning glory of his entire scientific career.

Edward knew he could spend a lifetime examining, experimenting, and come up with far more results, could change everything. He had the ability. Or had had the ability. It had already been done, in a sense. The same questions had simply been turned outward, though there was nothing more obnoxious than the injection of epistemological questions into daily life. The word itself, Edward thought, waiting for the saboteur, for Kesler, for anyone, was intolerable.

It was a relief to know that some things couldn't be predicted. That was the great possibility of scientific thought to him. After humanity's self-importance was consigned to the historical sewer, research would finally be possible. It was a long overdue development. When it was first proven, to general astonishment (or so he imagined) that the earth did not lay at the centre of the universe, and further that the sun did not revolve around the earth, there was the opportunity and it had been missed. All that had occurred since, Edward thought, with minor, necessarily mediocre exceptions, had been a collective effort to pretend that the sun could still spin around and for humanity, if only in a more abstract sense.

Abstraction was the key. With abstraction, anything was excusable.

What had they expected here, exactly? What they would find was disappointment. The greater the expectation, the more flimsy the reward. He knew he was equally guilty. He knew whoever appeared first would be brutalised. He questioned his own sanity, at times, but that was nothing new either. The image of the reasonable act here lingered and was discarded. He imagined himself telling Liebert that he hadn't done this for pragmatism, for politics, but in this vision, of course, he had to have actually done something. Every vision was nonsense, inherently subject to ridicule.

Exactly what it was he first said to the expected arrival, the provost marshal who'd travelled so very far from home, went all but unheard. Or so Edward thought.

Johan did not, though he was hardly surprised. The entire sordid story was revealed in a sort of half-glance to one side, routine, mundane, but not for him. He asked an equally commonplace question, to believe his tone. "Is she here?"

"In North City," Edward said. "Where else?"

"Then leave," Johan said. "You shouldn't have come."

"You shouldn't have gone back. Were you to prevent the sabotage, put off the executions, or deliver a message?"

Johan allowed a rare smile. "All of the above."

"You may have to settle for one in three."

"What do you care?"

"I have an appreciation for finality," Edward said. "Now: the message. Or do we ask Dmitri? You were, I recall, very insistent that he should disappear."

Which they both knew was untrue. Liebert had been insistent, Johan had been compliant, and there was nothing easier than discarding such second-hand motives, indulging this sort of cheap indifference, the kind that led anywhere but to paralysis. Alarms began to sound again, this time signalling fire. They did not notice.

"I told you what would happen," Johan said. "Did you think by running back here you could fix something, that you had some special significance? If you'd listened, if you, I thought, could piece it together, could get over yourse—"

This was too much. Not here, not under such false pretences, not with such a drastically mistaken conclusion sure to erupt at any moment.

"I remember every word," Edward said, so very lightly. "This life is, I quote, a living hell. And who could disagree? Neither of us is going to fix anything. But I never intended, I was never _capable_, of coming here to murder these people; I'm unable, not blessed with sufficient idiocy, to take this, them, anything_,_ seriously. The lecture you intended to give was a complete embarrassment. It's been replaced." He was remarkably exhausted, in that unfathomable sense which manifests as anything but fatigue. "Even my work," he added, gesturing at the laboratory as he had to so many distinguished guests, "even this, has been replaced. Your career went down the drain for the same reason. Imagine you, now, dressing up in uniform and telling yourself you're safeguarding Borginia, which is what, exactly? A fraud. When you found Anya and the knife—any excuse to sail off for the next continent—you were as relieved as I was when forced out of Merestan, off this island, out of Merestan again. Exile, as you said, solves nothing. We all _must_ find our own way, well, we've done that. Now we can't even pretend what we're doing is important. This is why everyone agrees that Dmitri should be shot and why no-one can do it. Only he himself could do it. We lack the stamina. On the way here I thought: this is my worst mistake yet, as you would've said. Eliza would never come here, I should have realised what that meant, but didn't until it was too late. What use would there even be in erasing the past? None. It's an excuse. For what? I've no idea. This endless talk of vanity: well, _we're_ no different, smug satisfaction or not. You can take this useless lecture home, tell Eliza for me. Even that's an assumption: she could be dead, she could be different, it's been such a long time, but even if she was that would only be the final proof of my latest theory. Everything is fundamentally _too late_. There's no shame in any of this, you said. There you were completely mistaken."

Johan waited, on the verge of turning to leave, to never come back, which he could do so very easily, the case in his hand and all, and did not. "She was coming to see you," he finally said. "Is that what you need to hear? The _proof?_" He was becoming peculiarly restless. "She told me: 'we're on his side, Johan, his work is ours, his opposition was circumstantial, not even ideological.' And you can imagine the rest, because I'm not going to bother. There's your message, that's my part done. Let it all collapse, Anders told me, cheerful as could be, so long as everyone is complicit. Everyone makes it happen. It _has_ collapsed. Congratulations."

"She'll lose her own position before the end of the upcoming summer," Edward said. It was not a question. Not even speculative.

"Who won't? The psychology of our time, according to her. Whatever that means. She wants to find you. You want to find her. You know what I think? The two of you deserve each other. What have you got to fight over? It keeps you going knowing that out there, somewhere, is someone just like you. I don't care, I can appreciate the project. Go back, go north, and you can have it all. But you'll leave Anya out of it."

It was the last part, only the last, which provoked a response. He certainly did know how to share it. Those around him had said and shown as much, and to attribute this to a single cause was vanity to the extreme, after all, even if had happened in the last year, a veritable history of decay, had only been possible through his work and all that had spurred it on. Sentiments which, though crude and, during his first stay on the island, misanthropic, had only been changed, not erased. Something on the floor below shuddered, the lights flickering again.

Erase this place? It could never be done. Suddenly he regretted this entire notion, realised again how pointless, especially pointless, it had been to come here, but it was the ridiculousness of it that was intolerable. He could hear the frantic, energetic words Johan had remembered for him, hear them because he himself could have said them, line by line. He had come to do nothing.

What he had told himself he was facilitating was to be done by another. It felt a world away; he wanted it to be a world away. Back to North City, back to the revolt. But for what? Ostensibly, supposedly, allegedly, reportedly, the decaying state apparatus was now even more fervently _against_ him, in some existential way. Months he'd waited, unbothered by uniformed opposition except in his own feverish thoughts. In reality the hunt had ended, Dmitri aside, Dmitri as the one exception—how, Edward thought, Eliza must abuse him for it—the moment Hereson had been shot in the head. The state was finished, the military was finished, no doubt they'd be back, the ghost lingered on, but a reprieve had been granted.

Everything, Edward became aware, he thought, that people liked to tell themselves, to tell each other, but especially themselves, was a lie. It was unavoidable. Likely even this, the omnipresent quality of deception, the certainty he had of that, was a cover for something else which in turn could be unmasked as dubious. The need to ask _why_, to find a deeper sense of order, was no more or less laudable than easy acceptance of observation. Senselessness was unpleasant; was this reason alone to dismiss it? It was the problem of the sun again.

Regina had not brought Anton Royce here for the reasons the two had told themselves they valued six months ago, a year ago, three years ago. It would be so satisfying to tell himself he had been betrayed, as if she could possibly have gone anywhere else but to Royce and survived, much as Edward had gone to Liebert. Even though Liebert had physically come to him, Edward knew it was he who had gone to Liebert. But Royce had died several hours before setting foot on the island, nobody would save him, and he had known it. What had he achieved? Nothing. Surely nothing, at least practically, pragmatically. The man's entire life had fizzled out to nothing, though that was nothing novel. But this turned Edward away from the two even more.

The satisfaction of a fictional betrayal was a cover too, as such things always were. An excuse. A justification. But if the right time, the right place, were always in the distant past, only ever retrospective, what use were they even conceptually? He had nothing left to offer. He could not simply put on the role of eager researcher or active enemy of the state as he would an old coat. Desire was scarcely even conscious, let alone chosen. How could he see either again? It would mean total annihilation.

"The island has already been destroyed, hasn't it?"

"In half an hour, I'd say, the shells start falling. They won't stop until this place is little more than a bad memory."

"Then those below, Royce and the woman with him," Edward said suddenly, "they weren't here to seize the place at all, were they?"

Johan was gone. He took the devices with him, and he took his protections with him. His efforts had given Anton Royce shelter too, for a time, he'd said, if only to keep Dmitri occupied. Obsession had taken root in Mirzin's mind. Edward did not care—they already had a pair, Initialise and Stabilise, the two functions he himself had a total inability to grasp, he laughed at that. In a sense he was no longer there, not on Ibis Island, but his mind had wandered far to the north and the south. North City, Merestan, Polostin, whatever did the three mean?

Below, in the halls, he found Kesler slouched down against a wall. The dull grey of her jacket was stained red down the left side. Another body in indigo lay at the other end, a young enlisted woman, to judge by the ruined insignia. The back of her head, ever so slightly to the right, had been blown open, blood and bone and worse covering the pristine Borginian steel. It was vile enough to return him to the present in all its dismal glory.

Kesler, he realised with relief, was shaking ever so slightly. It was not an injury, though she had hardly appeared conscious, not until she pushed him aside with disproportionate force, almost spoke, but seemed unable. Edward did not ask. She considered it a humiliation. To hide, to be outmanoeuvred, to have to retreat and play such a part, with another's blood, even, to delay death until she could flee or the victors began checking their work. Until the execution.

Edward considered himself at fault, and did not say that either. "Where did they go?" he asked instead, as softly as he could.

She told him that when the doors had unsealed the shot had not been taken, that the surprise, the recollection of those faces, finally together, had been too much to comprehend in the half second she'd had. That, if not for her failure, Mirzin himself could have been removed, as planned. That perhaps all those in the port would have escaped what she was sure had happened, that they'd been killed to the last. Royce and Mirzin, down one hall, and down the other . . .

Edward said nothing. It was not needed, it was not wanted; she simply had to grasp it herself, as she always did, and, he knew, the shaking had little to do with fear and everything to do with memory. She had so casually volunteered for this, he had known, he alone had known the significance that execution with a rifle carried for her, the horror, the mundane senseless motion etched into memory forever, and hadn't asked. He never asked.

They both knew the significance of memory. The stubbornness.

Which was why, or so they both privately said to themselves, they parted there.

There was nothing to say, which is why everyone present forced themselves into this position. That they both saw, the very moment the doors to the port entrance opened, the thud of the fire alarm drilling itself into their respective minds, the corpses sprawled around a fitting backdrop. Where had the frenzy gone, into which corner had the struggle dissipated?

True to form, true to what he perceived as truth, for a time they could only stare. Uncertain. Unmoving. The former of these was, it became clear, a lie. What they perceived was not subject to analysis and not constrained by feigned practicality.

This was someone who had facilitated his break from the past, who he himself had enabled to do the same, who had, through the malignant decay that so pervasively marked the last months, become the embodiment of the past itself. A different past, admittedly. One in which the world had conspired against them personally, had taken an interest in their individual fates. Antagonism did wonders for transmuting people into something less detestable, admittedly a miracle subject to diminishing returns. All well and good, as no such effect had been observed at the time.

Anything was possible, he had supposed for a lifetime, but really nothing was possible. Circumventing this became an obsession. Even if his work had a ninety-nine point nine percent success rate, he had always known, it would remain a total failure.

Glimpses came back as if from a fever dream, and intermixed were more of the marble of western command, the stone of northern command, the image generated by Johan's words in his own likeliness, of the woman he pretended was his own antithesis. There the reality was, and it was of a remarkably different sort.

A distant sort.

There was a risk inherent to speech, as if something can be seen and understood, something that words would cheapen and invalidate. Speech for its own sake was a safeguard against that which was known and that which could not be unknown, one neither of them could endure. Misunderstanding through silence could be endured.

The unendurable had its own rewards. "Not even half a year," Regina said. Her tone alone was familiar. "That's all it was. I can say that, but I can't make sense of it. I can barely remember that night. That place. Do you? It's like we were both stuck in some fantasy where things could still make sense. " Simple, relaxed, ever so slightly longing. As if it had been thought and understood long before.

Everything had deteriorated. Polostin was finished, Edward realised, and he knew she had drawn the same conclusion, that the north was finished. It extended far beyond this underground hall, this island, but it was impossible to care for that. They were entirely alone. Johan was gone, Kesler had seen enough, Rick had vanished, Royce and Mirzin likewise, the guardsmen and the rest had evaporated. It should have been familiar.

It was not as it had been. Not the first time, and not after. Only the facility itself was as it was. Soaked in blood and memory, it had reverted to old form. To a certain extent, so had she. The ragged, hunted, desperate look had faded, old wounds had healed. It was a strange thing to see, given the time. As if even that memory had been called into question.

Edward knew how he appeared. He had seen it, he had been told. He recalled Harper too, how even then, with him, he had remained cold, stone-faced, and told himself it had been intentional. As if choice had any part to play.

The distance had shrunk from half a continent to half a metre, but this was ostensibly, supposedly; this was anything but what they both saw. It was Regina, again, as always, who could admit what she saw, could identity it. It was the resignation, not the bitterness, which ruined him. Annihilation not as speculation, but reality. A prediction that came to be, what an excruciating novelty.

"It really did work, didn't it?" she asked, inevitably, quietly. "Anders always said it had nothing to do with politics, cutting this country up and handing it to her friends; shit, cutting _me_ up, if you remember that. I didn't buy it. All that time down south I asked myself: how could anyone so deranged come as far as this, only it's not just her vain bullshit, is it? Everywhere you go, everyone you find. _Like this._" And he didn't respond, couldn't respond, until she closed the half-metre, seizing him by the shoulder: "Want to know why I'm so pissed off? Because I'm the same. So are you. You can't even speak, Edward, but that's not what it was either. Not even silence. Even that, _gone_."

"Even that," Edward said quietly. "Did you think we could simply go back?"

"I was never that—"

"I did," he said. That brought a look of swift surprise. "It was something I avoided. I always had a talent for that. I have a fixation on the past. A fixation on anything but what's directly in front of me. That hasn't changed. You aren't wrong, why deny it, her experiment worked better than any of mine, but the trouble with Eliza's rhetoric is that she can't believe a word of it herself. Surrounding herself with only those who take the bait, who sit there bathing in their own smug satisfaction—can you imagine it? I tried the same. I said whatever I could, whatever made sense on the day, every day, here and in Merestan. We did try to make it work. It did, for a time. I pretended to forget, and I pretended it had never happened. As always. Predictable, aren't I? It was Harper, you know, who reminded me, he thought the insult would linger."

"Harper." It was the least of her concerns, the only one that could be vocalised. "You're telling me he's still alive?"

"For a while longer," Edward said. "I don't even resent him. Not anymore."

Something he saw in her, some reflection, some reality, was all but unbearable. All he had left was to say what he thought was true. That he had followed Harper's advice, again, to mask his own complete lack of certainty, that he had told himself he intended to speak with Royce and Mirzin only to realise how little he had to say to either, that he would have left hours before had he not recalled too much to leave as if he'd never been there at all. Running too had lost its appeal. Yet, he told her, the more he spoke the less he felt he said, the less he could say. That she was entirely right, was always right; that he couldn't even speak, that in the north he said nothing, and when he spoke it was to say nothing. That ultimately he knew Eliza couldn't believe her own rhetoric because he could not believe his, because the more convincing he became the less he believed his own words, or any others. He wanted to hide nothing. To conceal nothing. Everything _had_ collapsed. There was no denying it. It would be a return north, and finally to Merestan. The city was already open. It hadn't been closed to him; he had been closed to it. He didn't mention the generator. It meant nothing to him, it had been resolved by her; it would be a fraudulent question, disrespectful.

Regina told him, suddenly, as if it had been forgotten, that she had been guaranteed passage there from Mirzin himself. It provided the only relief he'd felt that night. That winter. Nothing could be said, the silence conveyed too much, he could hardly speak.

The distance was not closing. This was their individual and shared expression of a sickness that had driven a continent to this loathsome point, Edward thought, had tried to say. Isolation and alienation and deceit were the reality they faced, not the subject of some abstract query. What was possible, what was conceivable—both fields had shrunk to nothing. Nothing they had tried had ever culminated in anything but collapse.

What they did hear, finally, muffled and some distance away, were two gunshots. They echoed down the halls and the moment was gone.

"You could come with me," Regina said quietly. "Back south, to Polostin, or wherever's next. You can make a fresh start, disappear—that's what you wanted, I recall."

But it wasn't, they both saw, what he wanted then. It wasn't even what she wanted. The alternative was equally unthinkable.

It was taken.

Only as the allotted half hour was coming to a close, after he wordlessly found Kesler again and the two of them returned alone, unscathed, to the dusty and dim underground port, for their entire escort had vanished, Rick as well, did they find the ship the Borginians had so generously given them entirely as it had been. Unscratched, untouched.

A second docked boat had disappeared. Pausing with a half glance back at the entrance, where no-one followed, Kesler still slightly trembled. Something strangely listless had taken root. What had taken place in the dark, the corpses, those who'd died for nothing, had left an impact he'd not seen before. Had assumed, selfishly, that she was beyond. She looked at the entrance again, said nothing. It didn't need saying. They weren't going back.

Even that pause was unbearable. A surge of disgust, of contempt, boiled over and Edward almost slammed the hand clenched at his side into the ship, but even that expression would've been totally worthless.

"Eliza is coming to see us," he said, finally.

"If you tell me you want her dead," Kesler said, each word slow, strangely distant, "I won't believe you. I want no part in it."

"Neither do I," Edward said. "We'll give her exactly what she wants. That's how you destroy someone. Give them what they want, and watch."

Again Kesler stared at him, motionless, and again she didn't need to say it.

How they endured the return journey, the two of them together and alone, the sea ever calmer, the memory of a night that defied comprehension solidifying by the hour, Edward knew he would never know.

* * *

Regina found them without thought, without watching or seeing, her mind entirely elsewhere. Nowhere. It was as it had been waking in Polostin, in that dismal southern town, on Levin's ship, and when she had arrived on the island.

Only this time there was no next step to take. No private suspicion that if only the right move was made, all would be well. Andrey and the pilot would soon leave. Levin would soon do what he always did, the sensible thing. Return to the helicopter was the priority. Any other movement was essentially suicide.

And so she returned, more or less unconsciously, to the generator. This was the lesser prize, not the real entity.

In the centre of the hall stood a motionless figure. He was alone, a pistol held stiffly at his side, eyes fixed below. The smell of flame and smoke and warped metal concealed the nature of the sight, which she did not entirely perceive, for a moment.

Dmitri Mirzin did not move. He stood over Anton Royce, staring at the man as he never had in life. There was no question as to the nature of it. Royce had fallen on his back, had been shot twice in the chest, from the front. A simple execution, unresisted.

"What were you thinking?" Mirzin asked, almost inaudibly. Some time passed. He gave no sign that he had noticed her arrival. "What could you possibly have been thinking? There's something I've missed, some subterfuge, some . . ." Mirzin turned back on his heel suddenly, but immediately returned to Royce, accusation and disgust flickering into nothing.

It was already too late, Regina thought. Before the question of meaning ever manifested, something had already gone wrong. The question was a retrospective attempt to make right that which had never been right. People who are content, who are satisfied, are not poisoned by doubt and the tormenting sense of absence hidden beneath questions of meaning.

The pistol was still at his side, as if he'd forgotten it. The same arm had been injured shortly after their first encounter. It hardly seemed real. "It would be so clear," he said, even quieter. Deflated. "Royce and his inner circle. After this . . ."

"Not like last time, is it?" Regina asked. "No shows. No feigned gravity." He hadn't moved, had maintained his position. "Did she say you'd finally be satisfied? It'd start making sense? You'd _see _something? I won't judge. I fell for it too."

"Not another word," Mirzin said, remarkably softly.

"Or you'll shoot me," Regina said, unable to hide her amusement. "When did that threat lose its potency, exactly?"

It likely would happen. If the original act had fallen pitifully short, there was a minor chance the second would have the desired effect. It was hard to care. The idea of returning to Polostin had lost all appeal. Or Levin's ship, to be accurate; the city had surely fallen, the confirmation alone lagged behind. Mirzin did not make the motion, however. He simply stared at Royce, already differently, as if he were deliberately distancing himself from the event.

When the last face arrived, as Regina had suspected he would, and deposited the case with the two devices inside, something inside Mirzin snapped. He unleashed a barrage of questions, demands, upon Johan, went from detached to furious within half a second, a shift rendered outright unsettling by his strange motionlessness, by Johan's actual unease. Regina remembered him too well. He remembered her.

When the verbal deluge ended, Johan simply stepped back and shrugged. "I didn't want to be here," he said. "It's not personal. I was told to keep an eye on you. So I did."

"You turned the power off," Regina said with mock surprise, entirely for Mirzin's benefit. Which certainly had its effect.

"You ruined absolutely everything," he said, seething, having found his excuse. "They all escaped, Kirk above all, and _of course_ Eliza made sure of—"

"Am I the one you should be blaming?" Johan asked, with surprising delicacy.

After which he left, seemingly convinced he wouldn't be shot in the back, and right in that assumption.

Regina wasted no time, expecting and not particularly worried about the reaction, seized the case, which wasn't clasped, and smashed both devices on the concrete below.

It was exasperation which, if only for a few seconds, removed Mirzin's mask. He almost looked human. "We still have the other pair. A futile gesture, don't you think?"

"Are there any that aren't?"

"Did you come to that conclusion after seeing Edward?"

"Will you come to that conclusion after seeing Eliza? You'll never answer a single one of these questions. You'll let her pretend to answer them so you can go back on that radio and justify the next atrocity she pretends she wants you to commit."

"I never understand this listless antagonism of yours," Dmitri said abruptly. "You could've overpowered me, you had the chance—the shoulder never did heal. I knew you wouldn't. Everyone is paralysed, it's not even suicidal, is it, it's just indecision. You don't want to die, not really, but you don't want to do anything else either. Eliza understands it, but I don't."

"Is that how she convinced you?"

Dmitri just stared. Indecision had reached even here, Regina thought. After Royce it would never leave him. "I accompanied Eliza on the command north. To the extermination. Coming back, with what we knew . . . Your naïveté was the least of it, I could sympathise. But Anton's ageing burst of impotent heroicism? How about good Doctor Kirk's, well, _everything_? As if that narcissist could close his eyes and the world would cease to be. It disgusted me. I didn't need to be _convinced_. Not by her." There was a peculiar wistfulness about him. "You never had a choice. I should apologise. After all this, coming back, you're not as you were." His eyes were drawn back, inevitably, to the corpse. "Even he wasn't. What were the two of you thinking? You came here to die, as if I'd believe that . . . it's not as it should be." This final utterance, murmured, was all he could say.

Any longer and they'd be buried alive. It was a remarkably tranquil expression, Regina realised, on Anton's face. Mirzin's questions bothered her too. But for Gail, not her own sake. Twenty years, for this. Suddenly the sight was unbearable; instead she looked down at the ruined devices, what had once been called a Stabiliser, an Initialiser. In and of themselves they meant nothing. Nothing but a mocking reminder of something that could not be thought. Stability was a mythical quality. Edward had found stability in instability, decay, and resignation.

What had he meant? A return north, to something she could only faintly envision, a coup d'état by and for actors she knew and did not know, names and faces that blurred together into a sickly pastiche. Erosion was behind indecision. Meeting here had been instability and erosion, parting had been erosion and indecision. Liana had vanished, Regina recalled from somewhere. Her memories had become intolerable, nothing but an endless line-up of facades and acts, always for the benefit of someone else, especially when she thought the exact opposite. Like Mirzin, her persona was exactly that. A mask.

Mirzin said the same words again, to himself. The execution was delayed. Excruciatingly so. He couldn't do it, Regina thought; an instant later it seemed a certainty. Again she thought of Polostin. Of Levin, and his ship, of the attachments she'd tried to build. Of the direction Edward had taken which meant nothing to her, something unbearably familiar but distant etched into his face, a silent appeal. Not the narcissism of Mirzin's memory or the peculiarly uncertain certainty of hers, but something beneath both, something that had eclipsed both . He'd seen his own flaws, the unanswerable questions, externalised onto her. Her own doubts had never been resolved, only after, only ever after the fact, did it become clear that they would never be resolved in some miraculous moment of comprehension. Would not simply come together.

Nothing had ever come together. Memories were rewritten with every recollection. Mirzin was paralysed. Perhaps he would turn the pistol on himself, his feverish doubt was palpable. Only in these fleeting moments of disintegration was _anything_ genuinely possible, his attempts to stitch a meaning together were entirely inadequate. Regina knew he would eventually succeed. Eliza would pretend to know and he would pretend that she did. Doubt would not leave him but neither would it crush him. In Merestan Regina had pretended Edward had known and he had played the part, all but unconsciously. Kosra had been all too prescient. He had seen the strings and he had cut them; Regina had told herself she'd seen the strings and pretended to cut them.

Edward had told himself he'd seen the strings and pretended to cut them. A sudden burst of panic was smothered; it was too late, he was gone, it was done. The illusion that shaped her reality had been congealed and shoved onto him; he had become the object, the living embodiment of listlessness, inadequacy, indifference, dejection, an ever unsatisfying present and a futile past and future. Every observation she'd made of him had been an observation of herself; the image was repugnant, but the process was never one-sided.

Feigned gravity was her flaw too. Follow the road, keep pretending—it'll all come together. Mirzin stared down at Royce. Gravity was never feigned for nothing, it was only ever the least unthinkable of alternatives.

"Not as she said it would be," Dmitri murmured to the corpse. He hesitated for the briefest fraction of a second. "But the fault was mine."

"How do you go back?" Regina asked. "When you get everything you wanted and it comes down to this . . ."

Dmitri didn't move. "You step back, you adjust. It's a quiet thing, necessity."

"There's going to come a day where that won't be possible."

"I already see it," Dmitri said. "And what an example you are. Your day's arrived, and what do you do? Nothing. Nothing at all." Royce even then dominated his attention, his thoughts. "But that's your failure. There are other ways. Ways to do the unthinkable even if, no, because, you lack all reason. _That_ is certainly still possible."

"If you can still believe that," Regina said, "then take me to Merestan. Show me."

Dmitri, finally, stepped back, his eyes unfamiliar and unreadable. "Alright."


End file.
